


in a blink of eternity

by Anonymous



Series: in a blink of eternity [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Demons, Hunters & Hunting, I dont understand the meaning of slow burn, Interpol - Freeform, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow slow then wtf really fast burn, Throws more smut scenes in like YOLO, Vampires, Vicchan is a Hellhound, Victor is a mystery, Werewolves, Witchcraft, Witches, Yuuri is a witch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 103,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki has seen many horrors and solved many mysteries as a witch working for Interpol's supernatural department. Over the years, he tirelessly solved the cases of rogue vampires, rabid werewolves, and the occasional ghost. But when two gruesome cases figuratively slide across Yuuri's desk, little does he realize that the fate of the world literally hangs in the balance.Yuuri Katsuki is on the brink of discovering that everything he thought he knew—is a lie.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Series: in a blink of eternity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759261
Comments: 161
Kudos: 400
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Genesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scientist by Coldplay

An hour ago, the local police department fished a body out of a golf pond. Most of the flesh has been eaten by worms, the local school of fishes, and seagulls. Yuuri, being a witch, typically wouldn’t be sent to inspect a body dump if it wasn’t for an old hexbag tucked inside the ratted polyester sleeve of the victim. Interpol’s department of supernatural inspectors has only a selected number of personnel available. The FBI has one as well, but Yuuri was in the area, having finished a long case involving vampires and a string of small-time robberies. 

“So,” says the local detective, holding a cliche little notepad and black pen in his hands. “Is it a normal body or something supernatural?” He clicks his pen impatiently. 

_Our case or yours?_ That’s the detective’s unspoken question. 

Yuuri gives him a quick lookover. He’s young, maybe early thirties. An alpha. Unmated. In his experience, the younger detectives and officers tend to want the supernatural cases while the older ones know better than to take it unless necessary. Supernatural cases like to follow investigators home. Yuuri ignores the detective’s question and snaps his fingers. The hexbag in question floats in midair, spinning slowly for Yuuri’s examination. 

“So. . .” The detective taps his foot. “Ours?”

Yuuri raises his fists and unfurls his fingers. The hexbag unfolds like a flower unraveling its petals before the sun, the string parts easily. Yuuri nods. “It’s yours.” The hexbag zooms itself into an evidence bag, sealed within the plastic. “Hexbag is full of dried clovers, dirt, and the typical ingredients you’ll find in any Hot Topic shops.” 

“Oh,” the detective says, his voice heavy with disappointment. “But you can tell there’s no magical aura or spell residue around the body, right?”

Yuuri nods. “Nothing. The hexbag is nothing, too.” Yuuri is far better at disguising his emotions than the detective. He’s honestly relieved he doesn’t have to take this case. He’s been running on little energy bottles after putting a stake through three rabid vampires eight hours ago. An excessively complicated case involving possible witchcraft or maybe even demons would ruin his weekend of sleeping. Better to leave it to the enterprising young detective, who has more energy and time than Yuuri. 

After giving a second glance at the corpse and the pond, he bids a small farewell to the detective, which is half-heartedly returned. Yuuri strolls through the country club for quite a distance before reaching deep into his pocket. He pulls out a piece of white chalk and begins to draw a temporary portal in the sidewalk. A simple sigil is enough to throw his molecules across the city and back into his hotel room. 

It takes a mere snap for the hotel lights to switch off. 

* * *

Yuuri has worked for Interpol for over thirty years. As a decently powerful witch born from a magical bloodline, Yuuri could perhaps live and work for another fifty years before the stress of the job eats him alive or he ends up happily mated with children. His sister, Mari, stays home to manage the hot springs as the Katsukis have done for the past thousands of years. He's been hopping cities, states, and countries alike, hunting the rogue supernatural. It's somewhat lonely work. 

The last time he talked to another Interpol agent in person was probably three years ago in Russia. That was when Kenji, a fellow witch and his hyper ex-partner, got his orders to leave for South Africa alone. Yuuri, on the other hand, was sent to Paris to hunt a few dozen ghouls living in the dank catacombs before attending his regular annual psych evaluation. His only personal connection comes from his cell phone, which receives all Interpol orders and the occasional text message from Phichit, Mari, and his parents. Mari sends him weekly photos and videos of their pet hellhound, Vicchan. 

Yuuri's eyes blink awake at the sound of his phone ringing. _Well, the peace was nice while it lasted,_ he thinks. He easily picks up the call. "Katsuki Yuuri speaking." He glances around the room, surprised to see light behind the thick drapes. He slept more than he thought. It's one in the afternoon according to the hotel clock. 

"Mr. Katsuki, your next assignment will be briefed in the Lyon headquarters in three hours." 

Yuuri blinks in surprise. Usually they would tell Yuuri the location and who to stick a knife in. An in-person briefing happens every ten years or so and involves some sort of convoluted or political angle. Or maybe they didn't like Yuuri's psych evaluation results. Bureaucracy is excessively slow these days. 

The witch remembers the last briefing of this type. Happened in 2006 when one of their agents, a werewolf, got bitten by a rabid werewolf, hid his bite, went off the deep ends for a week while hiding somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, and caused a dozen stacks of paperwork for everyone involved. And _Yuuri_ was involved. That agent got unofficially demoted and sent to Greenland for some sort of permanent position. 

"Yes, ma'am," confirms Yuuri. "Any other instructions?" 

"It's recommended you bring whatever supplies you may need. Spell books, grimoire, ingredients. You may not have time to retrieve your belongings when you're in Lyon."

* * *

The thing about being a witch is that many mundane and ordinary tasks becomes nothing but an afterthought. Yuuri's belongings always go where he goes. His black wool coat, one of the earliest magical works he's created, comprises many pockets. Reach far enough and Yuuri might find that random chocolate kiss he lost fifteen years ago when he placed the kiss in the inner breast pocket of miscellaneous objects. He has his outer pocket of books organized, however.

After he used an international gateway to hop into France, he decides to wander around the deepest parts of Interpol headquarters. It's chilly but sterile. Another turn finds him in front of a familiar sight. The morgue. 

The white double doors are shut, but Yuuri knows very well of what lies behind. 

There's a sudden creak of wheels and then a casual clearing of the throat. "Katsuki." 

Trying not to be too unsettled, Yuuri slowly exhales and turns. "Hey, Seung-gil." 

Seung-gil Lee, the oldest employee of Interpol, is a vampire who has never left the bowels of the headquarters since the 30s and the invention of the blood bag. He's pale but tall and dressed in a sterile white lab coat that is used by all other coroners in the morgue. Interpol has a bedroom and bath for Seung-gil next to the morgue, or so has Yuuri heard. 

Seung-gil was human once. He was an alpha before he became a vampire. Vampirism erases all secondary gender traits, rendering every person into a beta. He started out as a medical doctor in Korea before being bitten by a patient. Yuuri finds him instinctively unnerving. He has little scent and always smells of dead blood. It's impossible to forget he's not human. Plus, vampires and witches generally do not work well together. Vampires are resilient to magic while a witch’s blood can poison a vampire to a more permanent death.

He raises an eyebrow. "Move. Unless you would like to help examine this body." 

Yuuri quickly flushes. He has not caught up on all of his sleep. He slides to the left and lets the vampire push the cart through. "I'm so sorry." He gives a brief nod of sincere apology. 

He turns to wander deeper into unfamiliar hallways and rooms. 

"Wait," the vampire calls out. "You want to help?" 

Two minutes later finds Yuuri donning a lab coat over his coat. He peers over the vampire's shoulder for a better view of the strange object seen into the victim's thigh. 

"Silver," confirms Seung-gil, pulling the object out of the muscles. "They were torturing this werewolf to death with silver." He places the shard onto a pan Yuuri helpfully holds out to him. 

Yuuri can't say that it's his first time seeing something like this. Setting the pan down, he grabs the file on the victim and scribbles in notes into the autopsy. Casually, he asks, "Are you part of the briefing?"

Seung-gil scowls, a rare form of expression. "They want me to go outside to do crime scene analysis. Outside." He chucks a scalpel into the sink with more force than necessary. "It may be a big case, but they are being shortsighted when it comes to me and sunlight." 

Yuuri kind of doubts that. He can always go out at night where his vision far exceeds any human vision under light. Seung-gil just hates leaving the headquarters and his home for the past almost one hundred years. But that would lead to him admitting he actually likes working at Interpol. 

"How bad is it?" Yuuri softly inquires. 

With a new scalpel, Seung-gil makes a small bloodless nick at the mangled throat of the victim. "Worse than 1997." 

The memory of 1997 doesn't leave the forefront of Yuuri's mind even as he's moving with Seung-gil to the conference room on the third floor. 1997 is Yuuri's second briefing. It's also the worst case he ever had. There was a string of dead bodies in the summer of '97. All young, pretty, low-risk victims with no connections to each other except the killer. A supernatural serial killer. Cause of death indeterminate. It was like their heart simply gave up and they collapsed where they stood. Interpol was finding the eighth victim when Seung-gil, tired of being unable to find a cause of death for the eighth time in over seventy years, took a bite out of the seventh victim and made a major breakthrough in the case. "Prolactin, norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, and nitric oxide," he said, mouth full of clotted blood taken from the victim's neck. "Chemicals and hormones found when having an orgasm. It's probably a sex demon." 

Yakov Feltsman, the leader of the task force, probably aged ten years when he saw the paperwork on his vampire coroner biting a dead body. Losing hair by the second, he screamed, "Next time, he uses a syringe if he wants blood!" 

To Yuuri's surprise, Yakov Feltsman is once again sitting at the head of the rectangular conference table. Yuuri reckoned Yakov would have retired by now in his old age. He scans the room to find familiar faces. He waves at Phichit, a fellow witch. He nods at Sara, a friendly werewolf sitting next to her twin brother. Mickey is also a werewolf. Mila, a vampire slightly younger than Seung-gil, slowly tears apart a scrap of paper while blowing bubblegum. There are two faces Yuuri doesn't recognize. Two hunters. Human. They must have joined Interpol recently. 

A task force of nine. This is a major case, Yuuri concludes. Especially in a department of forty or so agents who are capable of working alone. 

Yakov stands up and switches off the lights. A PowerPoint presentation glows behind him. Deep Russian-accented English emerges from Yakov's throat. "Most of you know each other. We'll start with the case. A week ago, our hunters discovered two bodies in a cemetery. Dead of magical causes." The slide switches to show two victims, somewhat decomposed, sitting on a sigil painted in red. "This was in Wales." 

Yuuri looks down at his briefing folder. He examines the sigil closely, eyes squinting as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He has never seen the sigil before. 

"Now, this was yesterday." Yakov presses a button on the clicker. A scene of three bodies lay around a large circle. 

"Is that a church?" Mila asks. 

"Yes, the High Cathedral of Saint Peter in Trier," says Yakov, his eyelids twitching at the interruption. He gestures wildly, dramatically into the air. "Those are nuns. They lived in the Cathedral for many years. Ages range from early forties to late seventies." 

"Trier is in Germany," says Mila, unfazed by Yakov's glaring. "How do we know this is the same perpetrator as the one in England?" 

“The way they drew the sigil is identical. It’s like a fingerprint,” answers Phichit, now receiving Yakov’s death glare. “The curvatures match.” 

Clearing his throat, Yakov continues, “Analysis by Mr. Crispino has concluded that the perpetrators are going to escalate, because they have not yet obtained the results they’ve wanted. I’m splitting you into two groups. I want Yuuri, Sara, Leo, and Guang Hong to be in the field while the rest of you do research on the sigils and analyze the perpetrator. Seung-gil, this case must be your priority. Do a thorough autopsy and mark all evidence to be processed as top priority.” 

The vampire nods, relieved. “Of course, Mr. Feltsman.” 

Yakov points to the presentation. A rough sketch of both sigils are laid out side by side. “These are what the sigils look like. The one on the left was the one in Wales.” 

“They’re slightly different,” says Mila. She turns to look at Phichit and then Yuuri. “Looks like summoning sigils of some sorts on the older one.”

“Dark magic,” suggests Phichit. “I’m not familiar with those, but the one on the right looks more like a communication sigil. You can tell they’re both targeting the same entity because of the symbol that looks like a weirdass fancy five-point star with some extra fancy lines. I’m going to have to dig through some grimoires to figure out who they’re trying to talk to.” 

Mila raises an eyebrow and glances at Yuuri. “Any thoughts?” 

Yuuri adjusts his glasses. “There’s a Vegvisir drawn in both of them. That’s a sigil that prevents a witch or a user from getting lost. Usually used as protection. My guess is that the entity in question could use mind magic or trickery to confuse and hurt the perpetrator.”

Nodding along, the vampire concludes, “So you’re saying that we have someone or someones, who is using human sacrifices to power these rituals and maybe even planning to kill more people right this moment. . .” She gestures to the sigil and continues, “Is actually _afraid_ of the entity they’re summoning.” 

“Well,” corrects Phichit, “they didn’t actually summon anyone in the first one. The first ritual failed somehow. They drained the life of the two victims, but there’s no evidence of anything being entered into the sigil as a result of the ritual.”

“You sure? Cause in my experience, a failed ritual typically doesn’t kill off victims,” says Mila, cocking her head. She blows another bubble.

“They do when it's a dark ritual and the ritual demands far more than the summoner has offered." 

"But how could you tell yesterday's worked?" 

"Sulfur in the oldest nun's autopsy. She was used as a mouthpiece for the entity. No sulfur or hell dust or ash found in the first one," answers Phichit. 

"There goes my appetite for dinner," mutters Sara. "Was thinking of some nice raw pork chops." 

"Alright, it's clear you people don't need me anymore to brief the case," grunts Yakov, shutting off the projection. "I still expect updates every three hours from each person whether in person or through text messaging and phone calls. Understood?"

* * *

Yuuri awkwardly returns Phichit's hug. He's far more tactile than Yuuri is. They worked together back in the 90s, back when Phichit was just a newbie and a recent graduate from the Magical Academy in Tokyo, one of the oldest witch schools in the world. The previous witch agents were dead due to a major case, which led to Phichit and Yuuri being trained together under a retired Italian vampire they nicknamed Ciao Ciao. 

“I got a new hamster. His name is Arthur,” says Phichit, opening up his Instagram page and cooing like a mother over her son. Arthur is pale white, almost like a blob of snow. “Have you seen anything like him?”

To Yuuri, all hamsters and rodents look the same. But even he has enough social graces to know not to mention that. “Yes, he’s so cute! What breed is he?”

Yuuri listens politely as Phichit dives into full details about the hamster. He’s not quite sure if he’ll remember anything except for the hamster’s name, but he nods along at the right places. 

Phichit Chulanont was born in Thailand. His parents and numerous siblings compose of his coven. He occasionally uses a hamster as his familiar. As an alpha witch and the fourth oldest among his siblings, he's not expected to lead the coven and is free to do whatever he wishes. 

Finally, Phichit's conversation moves to the subject of the case. "It's nothing like 1997." 

Yuuri nods in agreement. "What do you think they were trying to summon?" 

"Something really bad. I can tell just from looking at it. I get shivers from looking at that symbol. Like this super uneasy feeling." A pause. "Have you seen it before?" 

Yuuri shakes his head. "I don't remember sigils and symbols. Anything I learned from homeschool has been forgotten." 

"I've been pulling books from Oxford and Harvard. They're supposed to arrive soon. Maybe you can take a few to read through." 

Yuuri nods. "I'll have to go through my own collection to see if my family wrote anything down."

* * *

Sirens screech across the city of Berlin. Yuuri rearranges his coat, gently squatting a few inches away from the corpse. There's a sigil hastily painted in black spray paint in the center of the bodies. It looks nothing like the current case, but Yakov wants the team to be certain. No stone left unturned is the saying. 

"Sigil is not for summoning or communicating. It's a sort of anti-attention sigil to prevent people from noticing anything in this area. A temporary sigil. Typically lasts two or three hours at most." A pause. "I used one in my room back when I lived at home so the guests won't hear me through the thin walls." 

Sara grins knowingly. "Teenager Yuuri." 

The witch rolls his eyes at her. "They usually last a few hours before I have to refresh it with new ingredients. The witch would have used a bowl and placed it in the exact center of the sigil." Yuuri points to the center of the sigil and gestures for the crime scene investigator to take a thorough picture of the marks left behind by the bowl. "The spray paint actually curved along the bowl. If you do a sketch of the sigil, you'll have to take that into account." 

Pulling her work face on, Sara switches on a recorder. "Approximate age of the bodies range between late sixties to early eighties. Three males, one female. Bodies look like they've died maybe three days ago. But no sign of the typical indicators. No decomposing organisms. No bugs, no worms, nothing. It’s like nothing has been snacking on the bodies, but it’s in the advanced stages of decomp. I don’t think I even smell decomp. Just typical alleyway scent and trash. I'm not even certain they died here,” says Sara, shaking her head. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. Her ponytail swishes behind her. “I don’t think this is part of our current case.”

“It’s not,” agrees Yuuri. Looking at the barricade the local police have formed in between the crime scene and the press and curious onlookers, Yuuri lowers his voice. “It’s a dark witch. They’re using a spell to drain the life out of their victims to unnaturally extend their own life. This witch. . .” He pauses, outwardly reaching to _feel_ the slight magical footprints left behind. He shivers. “This witch should have been long dead.” 

“Yakov’s going to want priority in this case, too.” 

It's going to be a long week. 

"I need some coffee," Yuuri declares, once the bodies have been wrapped up in black body bags and loaded onto the coroner’s van. 

"Get one for me." 

Yuuri stands up and strips off his protective gloves. He manages to sneak around the press and dives into the closest coffee shop. Thankfully, there is no line. To the barista, he raises two fingers and says, "Decaf, please." He points to the largest cup size and passes a few bills. He drops his change into a tip cup. He kind of hopes he didn’t fudge the translation spell. Otherwise, he might be ordering pants and shoes instead of coffee in German. 

He’s been waiting for a few minutes when Yuuri turns for his order of coffee and someone with a messenger bag brushes past Yuuri and stumbles, sending iced coffee all over Yuuri’s hair. “I’m so sorry!” gasps a man’s voice, his words in lilting vowels of Japanese. He swiftly grabs a few napkins from the counter and hands them to the witch. 

An alpha, Yuuri is surprised to find. And Japanese, which is nice in a town full of Germans and unfamiliar faces. He slips off the translation spell and shakes his head at the Japanese man. “It’s okay,” he reassures, slipping into the familiar words of Japanese. At a snap of his finger, his hair instantly dries and his wool coat sizzles away the coffee droplets. “See? No harm, no foul.” 

“Ah, a witch!” excitedly exclaims the man. “I admit that I actually recognize you.” A hand reaches into his jacket and pulls out a press badge. “My name is Morooka Haruki from Japan Times. Lead reporter for international news.” 

Yuuri’s smile fades away. He tries not to show it, but Yuuri doesn’t have the most positive relationship with the press. They tend to report details they’re not supposed to know, and occasionally, someone inside slips them a bone they shouldn’t have. Then Yuuri will have to quietly question every single person on the team to figure out the leak. He reaches into his coat and pulls out ten euros, handing it to Morooka. “I’m so sorry about the coffee, but I must deliver a cup to my coworker. Please excuse me.” Yuuri quickly moves _away._

“No problem,” says the reporter, looking genuinely apologetic. “I’ll let you go.” 

Thanking whatever stars are looking out for him that day, he quickly grabs his coffee carrier and waves thanks at the barista before dashing outside to the frigid Berlin elements.

* * *

Despite Interpol informing him yesterday that he may not have time to gather personal belongings, it turns out Yuuri does have enough time to go home instead of a hotel. International gateways, though, remain booked several hours in advance. They’re the only things that allow witches to hop from country to country. All countries have a magical barrier to prevent witches from teleporting in or out illegally. 

With the convenience of travel these days, Yuuri moves around his apartment every once in a while. He moved his last apartment from New York City to Madrid seven years ago when the rent was hiked up yet again. He doesn’t know who or what he lives next to, but he finds the city of Madrid quite beautiful at night. He especially likes the towering statues on top of buildings right around sunset and sunrise. 

He doesn’t bother using a door. The neighbors probably think he’s either never left the apartment the entire time he has lived here or he’s never in his apartment despite paying a hefty amount of rent. He slips off his coat and lies supine on his bed. 

The great thing about having an apartment is having a fairly secluded place to nest and to suffer through a heat. Omega witches have heats far less often than humans. Yuuri can expect to see one knocking on his door in about two months. It’s usually a good time for him to take a nice sleeping pill that’ll ensure dreamless sleep for a not insignificant portion of his heat. Heats are the bane of Yuuri’s existence. That being said, however, heats are far nicer to witches than humans. At least, he doesn’t have to bother going on suppressants. 

After a moment of simply lying on his bed and ignoring the world, Yuuri summons Phichit’s grimoire from his coat. A light flicks on above his head. He begins the tiring process of fishing for anything potentially useful. It’s kind of hard when it comes to grimoires. Lots of witches and wannabe witches have taken to writing _a lot_ of spellbooks and fancy fake stories the last two centuries. Unfortunately, the more recent additions are the only ones to have survived the major magical book burning of 1933 by the Nazis. The older books are either to have been expertly hidden by witches or stolen by Nazis. The trouble when it comes to spellbooks is this: It’s very difficult to tell what is fake and what is real until a few spells are tested. Universities and academies are the only places safe enough to test the more dubious rituals. Sometimes they don’t work, sometimes a dead lab rat ends up getting buried underneath a nice tree in honor of the sacrifice it made to further the knowledge of the next generation of witches. 

Spells are like languages. Each one differs from region to region. A spell for weather prediction in Europe differs from the one used by the indigenous people of Northern America yet they both work. The European spell requires a bowl of animal blood and tree branches to be spilled and then interpreted on a relatively smooth surface while the Native Americans would meditate under a groove of trees to _see_ the weather. 

It’s why it takes Yuuri to get to the third chapter to realize the grimoire he’s holding is a pile of rubbish. The poor professors and students at John Hopkins would have to try every single ritual in the book even though they know all of the spells don’t actually work in the name of witchcraft. 

Yuuri mindlessly flips through the pages, looking through the symbols and the fake sigils. The wannabe witch, at least, had a decent hand at art. There’s nothing in here that tells him anything new about the two cases he’s investigating. 

He sends the book flying back into his coat. Pulling off his glasses, he rubs at his eyes in thought. Life-stealing witches. They tend to have some overlap with necromancers. A lot of them actually started out as necromancers. The art of necromancy was made popular by Hollywood, so there are now more necromancers than ever before. Most of them are small potatoes. They summon thousands of ants and termites from the dead and cause a twenty thousand dollar problem for their parents. Now, the more dangerous necromancers are the ones who would break into a Forest Lawn Cemetery at night and raise a bunch of freshly dead relatives to go scam some money out of their families and the local bank for the security deposit box. The dead's family, that is. Not the necromancer's.

He yanks out his phone to text Yakov's assistant, Georgi. Georgi, a vampire, has been around since the fall of the Ottoman Empire. He's older than Mila but younger than Seung-gil, who remembers the time before Japan occupied the Korean peninsula. Georgi worked for the Tsar as an assistant of some sorts at one point in his long life before shuffling around to administrative work. 

_Life-stealing witch is experienced, judging by severe degree of decomp,_ he composes, making his check in. _I suspect many unsolved cold cases are because of this witch._

Georgi, as usual, is quick to text back. _Any updates on the other case?_

_The book from John Hopkins is fictional. I'm going to sleep. I'll text you in the morning at 6am, Lyon time._

There are no further texts from Georgi. 

An hour later, Yuuri gently places his glasses on the nightstand. He buries himself underneath his comforter and breathes. He turns to watch the world outside of his window, staring at the lit and dark windows of the skyscrapers in the distance. The city lights dance in the windows as it melds into his dreamscape.

Respected professionals and researchers have squabbled for decades about dream magic. His family, his coven, are firm believers in its power and in its ability to solve questions. Yuuri knows firsthand of its amazing power to solve this age-old adult question: what to eat for dinner?

Yuuri watches his dreamscape pan out. His mother stands in a doorway, smiling with a bowl of katsudon in her hands. She cheerfully says, "Come, Yuuri! Dig in!" 

"The cases," mutters Yuuri, focusing away from his favorite food. "The cases." 

She frowns, stretching her hand out to feel Yuuri’s forehead even as she slowly begins to fade away. “You are not overworking yourself, are you? Take some time to relax, Yuuri!” Her molecules rearrange themselves into a pink cherry blossom tree. 

Yuuri glances around. He’s still in Hasetsu. Actually, this is the area next to the temple with its large assortment of cherry blossoms. There’s another Yuuri there, wearing something straight out of a Jane Austen movie. What was it called? A colorful pink-red bonnet over his hair. He still has no idea why any of this pertains to his cases, but he continues to let the dream unfold. 

In soft seductive tones Yuuri would never be caught using, fake Yuuri says to his unseen companion, “I know you’re there. I can sense you.” Sitting perfectly straight and erect like a Jane Austen heroine of pretentious high born values, he begins to fan himself. 

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. Fake him recognizing real him? None of this seems remotely useful to either of his cases. 

Startling the real Yuuri, a voice gently laughs from behind the cherry blossom tree. “So much for sneaking up on you.” 

“You’re not coming out to face me?” Fake Yuuri raises a casual eyebrow. “I thought Russian alphas are far less cowardly than this.” 

Yuuri rolls his eyes. This already sounds like one of his random fevered heat dreams when some attractive, mostly naked alpha comes to him in a fury of passionate desire. He almost tries to force the dreamscape to change when he suddenly stops short. 

The alpha. 

Yuuri _recognizes_ that alpha. 

A man dressed in a splendid dark grey suit from the 19th century slowly emerges from the shadow of the cherry blossom tree. Every inch of him is styled and pressed from his shiny Italian loafers to the expertly knotted black tie at his throat. He’s tall, his statue imposing for an alpha. Yuuri can even faintly smell the scent of dark chocolate and iron, like blood. But it’s his silver hair that draws Yuuri’s eyes. It’s the trait that always makes _this alpha_ stand out throughout history. It begs the question of why this alpha is in Yuuri’s dream. 

This alpha. 

Victor Nikiforov. 

A feeling of great foreboding sinks into his stomach. He wants to scream at Fake Yuuri to run away and to never look back. 

“Well, when you put it like that, Mr. Katsuki, it almost sounds like you’re challenging an alpha.” The words sound threatening, but instead, there’s an amused smile playing at the alpha’s lips. 

“Japan shall win.”

“I have no loyalties to any country or state or to any king, man, idea.” 

“Surprising words for a Russian. Doesn’t your Tsar tell you what to do and where to go and what to think?” Fake Yuuri snaps his fan shut with a flick. 

“You heard the Emperor’s decree. Do you believe in your heart what he says?”

“No,” Fake Yuuri answers with a smile. “If I did, I would be mated to an army officer with a child.” 

“So what stops you?” 

“We’re witches.” 

Victor’s smile is frozen, as if he’s forgotten that major detail. “Yes, that’s right.” A bitter pause. “Witches.”

* * *

“What do you want with the files on Victor Nikiforov?” asks Mickey, scrunching up his face. His pen taps impatiently. “I haven’t gone through those recent files yet. So you can’t have those. But I can give you the older cases in a few hours.”

“I need them now.”

Mickey shakes his head. “I can’t. They’re at the Milan office. I can’t go over to Milan and pick them up—”

At the words of Milan, Yuuri turns to walk out of Mickey’s temporary office. 

“Oh, of course. You’re a witch. You can go pick them up in ten minutes.” He tosses his hands out in exasperation. He shouts as Yuuri clears the doorway, “Just remember to return them to their exact places! And don't give them to my sister!” 

It’s actually more like an hour rather than ten minutes. Even with Yuuri flashing his Interpol badge and citing official business, he still can’t get past the French international borders without going through customs. However, the extremely long line of diplomats in front of him does give Yuuri plenty of time to think about Victor Nikiforov. 

Victor Nikiforov. The Swiss police figured out this alias, because it was the name he was using on his Russian passport to cross the Swiss border into Austria back in 1981. Most supernatural investigators and hunters would think he’s a vampire. He’s seemingly immortal and has been around since at least the Early Middle Ages in the exact same body. The idea of Victor Nikiforov being a vampire probably would have been true if it wasn’t for the fact he’s been seen many times over the decades standing right under broad daylight. Typically, the supernatural police force and hunter societies wouldn’t care about Victor Nikiforov if it wasn’t for the fact an U.S. intelligence agent photographed him in Burundi in 1972. In that photo, he was walking amongst the dead and dying victims of a genocide as if going for a stroll on a beach. Strangely, none of the soldiers seemed to have noticed or cared about a well-dressed white man walking around a school playground. 

He’s been wanted for questioning ever since. 

His case has been passed one generation to the next at Interpol. Mickey's father had it, and Mickey's grandfather started it. Thousands of hours allowed them to garner a major breakthrough in the Nikiforov case. The last major breakthrough, actually. That was the discovery of how _old_ Nikiforov is. From there, it was a matter of digging through historical records and tracing out a timeline. Mickey’s father found him in a photograph among Russian soldiers in World War I during the trench warfare. Nikiforov and Napoleon were in the same painting. In his medical journals, a plague doctor in Italy mentioned the appearance of a silver-haired body collector going from door to door with a wheelbarrow. Among supernatural academic circles, Victor Nikiforov has been a subject of intrigue. For Interpol, he's been on the unofficial most wanted list for decades. 

Yuuri can’t help but wonder if it was a mere coincidence that Nikiforov showed up in his dreams. As he peers at a more recent photo of Victor Nikiforov, he knows in his heart that it is not any mere coincidence. His dreams point to something greater, a mystery that needs to be solved now more than ever before. A mystery that is tied to at least one of the cases. 

The witch knows Nikiforov is not human. He can’t be a vampire either despite his appearance never changing through the centuries. Witches age slowly, but an experienced life-stealing witch could keep themselves alive for centuries. There is another option, though. A demon. 

The possibility of Nikiforov being a demon is even more unlikely than of him being a witch. Still a possibility, however. The possessed bodies of demons tend to not last long due to the exemplary efforts of hunters. A silver-haired man who is seemingly immortal should have been caught in a devil’s trap, burned with holy water, and then set on fire five centuries ago. After all the paperwork has been properly filed, there would be a metal box full of ashes buried in an unmarked grave with just a serial number etched on the lid. 

Yuuri turns a page. Nikiforov might not even be a demon or a witch. He could very well be a number of unknown and undiscovered supernatural creatures out there. Only way to be sure is to trap him and then proceed to run a number of tests on him. Or to observe him. 

Yuuri packs away all the cases into his coat. Each box shrinks as it visually bends into his inner pocket. He frowns as his phone buzzes with a text message. 

It’s from Sara. _Prato Cathedral. We have the same identifying signatures as case 1. I’ll be there in twenty minutes._

Then there’s another text. 

_Or as soon Phichit finishes feeding his babies._

Then _Phichit_ sends Yuuri a text. _She means hamsters. But yes, they’re my babies. <3 Won’t take too long to feed them all. _

Yuuri tries not to roll his eyes. In Phichit-speak, it means it’ll take thirty minutes. He once lived with Phichit and all that it has entailed. In addition to feeding them all, Phichit must also pet and kiss each one to ensure they all know they are equally loved. They’re like his kids, and he talks about them the same way people talk about their newborns. Except instead of first word and first burp, it’s more about first nip and first cuddle. Phichit would swear up and down the rivers of hell that he could hear their first words to him. Yuuri knows better than to argue. 

By the time he's at the gruesome crime scene in the Cathedral’s underground chapel, Phichit and Sara still have not arrived. The local police are already processing the scene though they know better than to touch any of the victims and the sigils. They're limited to photographing and questioning of potential witnesses. 

Pulling on gloves over his hands, Yuuri takes a long hard look at the nun sitting right on the north side of the sigil painted into the floor. The elderly nun’s mouth opens in a silent scream. Yuuri takes a hand and gently waves the air in front of her mouth towards his nose.

Sulfur. 

Yuuri raises his head, his eyes catching on the mural etched into the chapel’s walls. Medieval era art. Or so he would assume. It looks like Mary with her baby. Standing besides her are knights with swords at arms. 

Waving at Yuuri’s face for the witch’s attention, the local detective quietly says, “La madre superiora dice che le monache mancavano a colazione. Speriamo che l'Interpol sarà in grado di catturare chi gli ha fatto questo. Se c'è qualcosa che possiamo fare, ti preghiamo di farcelo sapere.” 

Yuuri blinks at her for a second too long, not comprehending. He shakes his head and casts the translation spell. “I’m sorry. I was lost in thought. Could you repeat what you said?” 

“Ah, Yuuri,” says Sara, heaving two cases of her equipment. To the detective, she politely replies, “Thank you, Detective. I appreciate your help very much. If you don’t mind, I hope you can give me your business card in case we need more information about this case.”

The detective nods. “Of course. Anything for Interpol. As I said before.” She reaches into her pocket and slips out a card. “We were able to gather some information for you. The oldest is Sister Mary Joy, who recently had her seventy-fourth birthday last week. The one on her right is Sister Mary Joseph, age fifty-eight. The youngest is Sister Mary Lauren, age thirty-two. She recently became a nun. All the sisters are frightened of what happened. They didn’t even know something was wrong until the Priest came in here and found them here like this.” 

Yuuri slips out a notepad from his coat and sketches out the sigil the sisters sit upon. He drops the translation spell as he narrows his eyes, squinting hard for precise details. To Sara, he says, “The perp has changed the sigil. You see the newly added triangle inside of it?”

“Yeah, each sister is sitting on top of an arm. What’s up with that?” Sara quickly pulls on her gloves and breaks her case open. 

“My guess is to better communicate with the entity,” suggests Yuuri. He glances around, ignoring the occasional flashes of the camera from the crime scene technician. “Where’s Phichit?”

“Grabbing coffee. It took forever for him to feed his hamsters,” she groans. “So. Did any of the locals touch anything of the crime scene?”

“No.”

“Did you touch anything?”

Yuuri shakes his head. He points to the nun sitting at the head of the triangle, the position of honor in the sigil. “Sister Mary Joy, the oldest nun, smells of sulfur in her mouth. This ritual worked. The entity spoke through her while the life force was drained from the two other sisters to fuel the ritual. When the two sisters died, Sister Mary Joy passed and ended the ritual. She was the last to die.” 

Sara furrows her eyebrow. “How can you even tell?”

Yuuri reaches his hand, following the pathway of the drawn triangle. “I can sense energy flowing to Sister Mary Joy.” He moves to stand behind the slumped body of Sister Mary Joy, completely recognizing that he looks creepy as he arranges his arms to point to the other two sisters. He moves his arms to himself. “Energy flows this way. Sister Mary Joy sits at the most important part of the triangle, representing the entity and thus is able to speak for him.”

Blinking, Sara shakes her head. “It’s really creepy when you do that, you know. I mean, it’s incredibly important how you can figure out the details of how a ritual works, but. . . Creepy.”

Yuuri ignores that. Werewolves and witches get along as much as vampires and witches do. It hurt the first time she said that even though she means well. It took Phichit for him to understand she simply doesn’t investigate the same way he does. Whereas he taps into the residual magic in the air and environment to reverse engineer the exact circumstances, Sara uses her exemplary nose and senses to find precise, grounded clues. She works well with Seung-gil in that way to the eternal disappointment of the vampire. She can examine the scenes to figure out latent footprints of the killer while he can figure out the exact damages a body sustained perimortem and postmortem. 

“It’s just the Yuuri process,” reassures Phichit, strolling in with a couple of coffee carriers in hands. Slipping on a translation spell, he smiles and hands a few cups to the local police. “Questi sono per te. Grazie mille per l'assistenza all'Interpol.”

The detective coos in delight. “Oh, grazie!” 

“We should do a demonstration of the ritual for the team,” suggests Yuuri. “It could help us determine the process of this ritual.”

“Great. Who are our test subjects?” 

“Your hamsters,” answers Yuuri. 

“No, not my babies!” cries Phichit, overly dramatic. He clutches at his heart. “I can’t believe you’ve volunteered my babies, Yuuri!”

* * *

“Is this necessary?”

“Yes. You volunteered my babies for this sick, heinous ritual that we could have used toads for,” rants Phichit, pulling on a thick black robe and lifting the dark hood over his head. “It’s only fitting we dress the part of an evil witch sacrificing innocent lives.” 

“Arthur bit you. Several times. You cried about it over the phone.”

“Still an innocent soul.” 

Yuuri sighs, pulling up his own hood. He secures the robe around his neck with a dark tie and glances over at his audience. Sara, Mila, and Seung-gil watch from the table, peering casually at three hamsters sitting on various parts of the sigil. 

“How are the hamsters so obedient?” questions Mila, setting down her phone on the conference table. “I would expect the victims to be squirming. Or maybe running away screaming for their lives.” 

Looking quite bored, Seung-gil calmly explains, “Blunt force trauma. They were knocked out for a time before their deaths.” 

“My hamsters are my familiars,” answers Phichit, glaring at Mila as if insulted by her calling his hamsters victims even though they kind of are. “They’re exceptionally well-trained. They know how to expertly channel their magic.” 

This, Sara blinks at. “They have magic?” gawks the werewolf. “But they’re hamsters.”

Phichit looks even more offended. 

Cutting in before Phichit ends up _cursing_ someone and their future children with an unnaturally long nose, Yuuri pointedly clears his throat and adjusts the extravagantly long sleeves. “Let’s begin.” Yuuri bites back a smile at seeing the hamsters quiet themselves. 

“I got the camera ready,” says Mila. 

Arthur, sitting at the position of honor, the place where the mouthpiece resides, stands at attention. His pure white fur flattens, and his tiny hands reach towards Phichit. He squeaks a few times at Phichit. Behind him, Oliver, a hamster with large brown spots, stands in position. Guinevere squeaks, sitting on the edge of the sigil with tiny hands running through her black spots. 

_“Si, si, si,”_ chants Phichit. 

Below the three hamsters, the sigils begin to glow a bright white. 

“Uh, Yuuri. What language is that?” whispers Mila. 

“Old Thai,” Yuuri answers out of the corner of his mouth. Picking up a salad bowl full of shaved cat hair from the local pet groomer, Yuuri places it in the precise center of the sigil as Phichit chants in the background. He’s careful to never step foot into the sigil. Interrupting a ritual can cause a backlash strong enough to throw Yuuri into a wall. 

Then the triangle inside the sigil activates, glowing a warm white. Energy flows from Oliver and Guinevere. The line connecting Oliver and Guinevere barely lights up at all. Arthur begins to change, his tiny paws outstretching to the sky. If Yuuri wasn’t so focused as he is right now, he might be laughing at the comical sight of three hamsters channeling a ritual. 

He thinks he hears a few giggles from Mila and Sara, though. Along with a few titters. And maybe a small comment that suspiciously sounded like “they’re so cute!” 

The ritual lasts maybe two minutes at most. 

When the sigil stops glowing, everyone can truly see the three hamsters again. Both sporting fur coats of pure white, Guinevere and Oliver squeaks in outrage at Phichit. The witch is picking both of them up and cooing sweet nothings and reassurances of “only temporary” at them. 

"Mila, send the video to the team." 

Grinning, Mila throws her thumbs up. "Already done."

* * *

It's during lunch break when Yuuri finds Phichit knocking on the door of his temporary office. Pictures of the crime scene are posted on one wall. Yuuri has been staring at the first case for hours and making little progress. Piles of his family's grimoires stack themselves on his desk. One is laid open. None of the sigils even remotely match the ones in the murders. 

"I have no luck with my family's library," says Phichit, nodding at the books. "One book from Cambridge might be promising, but it's currently being loaned out to an occult student. I had Yakov request for local police to borrow the book. Hopefully, it'll go somewhere." 

Yuuri nods. "I'm requesting some books from the Eygptian government."

"Oh, the tomb grimoires?" 

"The old Egyptian rituals," confirms Yuuri. "It might be a dead end, though. I feel like the sigils are most similar to European sigils. Maybe even a little Middle Eastern." 

"Of the Abrahamic religions?" 

Phichit and Yuuri stare at each other for a long moment, the same expression of horror shared between them. 

Phichit slowly says, "You don't think they were trying to summon the devil, do you?" 

Yuuri tries not to freak out, his mind flipping back to all the recent Hollywood horror movies he’s watched. Which is a long, long, long time ago. Maybe back in the 80s. "Can't be _the_ devil, cause his sigil is well-known. Those satanists use it all the time." 

"But it explains why we can't find information about it. We come from Asian backgrounds, we don't know what Abrahamic-based sigils even look like. We've never been taught them," Phichit points out. He snaps his fingers. "Vatican City has the largest collection of grimoires. They would know." 

"I'll send a request to the Vatican," promises Yuuri. Yuuri snaps his finger, and a board slides down the wall, pictures and evidence of the second case tacked. "Mickey said—" 

"No missing persons reported for any of those victims." 

"Yeah," says Yuuri. "But this witch is experienced. He or she has done this before. If we dig back into cold cases that match the description of this and look across Europe, we should be able to trace out a timeline." 

"Four dead people. Older humans, so it won't provide them that much energy. . ." Phichit hazards a guess. "Four days? They'll probably hunt in three days to make sure they don't starve."

"The degree of decomposition suggests longer. They didn't just drain them of their life, they drained the nutrients out of their bodies." A pause. "Remember Bryce? Back in '91?" 

Bryce was a witch who was behind a killing spree of three corpses in a small town in Australia. Ciao Ciao had Phichit and Yuuri investigating the case. They solved it fairly quickly, because Bryce was careless, overconfident, and new to life-stealing. He had a beef with every single one of the victims, which includes two of his ex-girlfriends and his ex-wife. The fourth almost-victim was his current wife. He's currently spending his extended life in one of Interpol's secret prisons. 

“Yeah?”

“Bryce is sloppy. This is a highly experienced witch, experience learned through _years_ of killing. Bryce left his victims with their flesh intact. This witch drained the body of its flesh and blood to absorb more energy. It’s why Sara couldn’t find any signs of ants, flies, or animal scavenging.”

“The sigil would deflect attention—”

“Only of humans, not of rats and scavengers. This witch clearly took less than 2 hours to kill and drain all four victims. Bryce, when we caught him, hadn't even fully drained his wife, even though he had a half an hour head start on the draining. And she was struggling against him. These victims have no defensive wounds at all. I would bet they died not knowing they died.” 

Silence. 

"How do you think he subdued them?"

"Sleeping powder. Easily obtainable. Just tossed it into their faces. They never saw it coming." Yuuri turns to the other witch. "I have to see the bodies for evidence of that powder." 

"There are a few other options. A sleeping sigil we may have missed in the crime scene. Or a hexbag," suggests Phichit. He pulls out his phone and frowns at the screen. "Seung-gil just texted. He says he can't find any matches for the four victims in the life-stealing witch case. Still no missing person reports filed with our victims description."

Confused, Yuuri stares at Phichit. "How do we not know the identity of four victims? He couldn't have possibly found four people that are off-grid." 

"It is a terrible area in Germany." 

"Seung-gil should run the dental records again." Yuuri pulls out his phone and shoots a quick text to the vampire: _Please run dental records again without any parameters such as age, gender, and ethnicity._

Seung-gil does not reply back. Then again, he's not glued to his phone like most of the team is. 

"This guy has to hunt again at some point." 

"Which makes him easier to catch," grimly declares Yuuri. 

"Hopefully, we can get to his next victims in time."

* * *

He’s home far more often than ever before. He finds it a little odd to be in Madrid twice in the same week. But he prefers to be home rather than a hotel room. Sensibilities ingrained in his instincts taught him to not use Interpol’s reduced rates at a French hotel in Lyon. He merely has to schedule international portals a few hours in advance and pay a small fee. The inconvenience doesn’t outweigh the benefits. 

Like this benefit he's enjoying this second. He loves watching the city from his apartment building. Drinking a small cup of warm water, he takes in the sight of the lights. Sometimes, he feels like the city is looking back at him, as if Yuuri belongs here too. 

He places the cup down and crawls underneath his comforter. He turns to face the window and the lights. Only at home does he not feel the need to pull the curtains to thoroughly sleep at night. 

His dreamscape blends into reality, almost seamlessly. He's standing in a buffet line, though the sea of people have no faces or clear characteristics. He stares blankly at the empty plastic plate in his hand before walking out of line. The servers are mechanically putting in pho soup and nothing else on people's plates. Soup spills onto the floor. 

No one cleans it up. 

_The cases,_ Yuuri thinks. _Concentrate on the cases._

The world seems to bend sideways. There's a scattering of voices as his magic searches for answers. 

_"My love, my heart—"_

_"Thirty-six witnesses and none of them actually saw anything even though a man with silver hair is standing right in the middle of them all—"_

_"Yuuri—"_

_"Shall we skate? You can stand like a feather on the ice—"_

_"It's—"_

Then the world suddenly solidifies. 

He's back in Hasetsu. By the groove of cherry blossom trees, which are all blooming in pink. He spies a figure coming closer from the distance. 

It's himself. In a bonnet like a true Jane Austen heroine with a colorful purple-pink fan to match. Fake Yuuri is wearing a 19th century dress with flowers in his hair. And sandals on his feet. 

It's clear he's looking for someone. 

Yuuri slowly makes his approach. "Hello," he calls out. "What are you doing?" 

Fake him doesn't seem to hear a word. He stops in his tracks and raises his voice. "Hiding in the shadows again like an assassin?" 

Victor Nikiforov ominously reveals himself from behind the thickest cherry blossom tree. Dressed to impress with sleek lines of his suit, he gently laughs. "I'm a poor assassin if you keep catching me." 

Yuuri rolls his eyes. He already wants to leave this episode of _Pride and Prejudice_ or whatever Jane Austen creation this to be. 

Together, the pair silently walk between the trees. Yuuri wonders if Fake Yuuri could actually do this without a chaperone. The only conclusion he can draw is that he has been watching too much Bollywood with Phichit over Skype. Maybe he needs to cancel some nights and schedule sleep instead. 

"So. Japan won." 

"Like you said. You have quite the foresight for great predictions," Victor says, his hands tucked behind his back.

Yuuri follows the couple into an atrium, feeling strangely like a lurking, uninvited third wheel. He hasn’t felt this since Yuuko invited him to the movies with Takeshi and he didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to accept. 

Fake Yuuri pauses in his step and turns to the alpha. He reaches for his fan and murmurs, "The war is over. There is nothing for you to do in Japan. No more patients to heal, no more battles to fight. Nothing to tie you here." 

"That's not true." Victor, looking far sadder than Yuuri can understand, whispers, "There's still one thing." 

As he watch Fake Yuuri and Victor gaze longingly at each other, Yuuri knows _this_ to be the moment where they kiss. This is the grand moment when the world pivotally shifts. This is the time when the heartstopping music comes soaring into greater and divine heights. He learned too well from all the Bollywood movies he watched with Phichit and the chick flicks he was roped into watching by Mari. 

They don't. 

Yuuri feels a quick stab of offense on behalf of all Jane Austen fans as the couple resume their stroll. He kind of expected one of them to lean in, but instead, they let the tension hang in suspense. 

A yip draws Yuuri's eye. The small hellhound comes at Fake Yuuri with delight. 

Like what Yuuri would do, Fake Yuuri kneels. "Who's a good dog? Who's a cute dog?" The hellhound rolls his tongue in glee at all the attention and petting. 

Surprisingly, he moves from Fake Yuuri to Victor. 

It's a bit odd. Vicchan never liked strangers until he's seen them a few times. He loves people sooner when they feed him. 

"What a beautiful hellhound," murmurs Victor, squatting to pet the undersized dog. He scratches Vicchan in all his favorite places and laughs when the dog sniffs and whines at Victor's pockets. "He can smell the dried squid." 

Vicchan is going to love Victor forever. Dried squid is the best bribe to get Vicchan to do anything. 

Yuuri follows the three of them down to the beach. Vicchan is off the leash, his nose sniffing at dried kelp and random rocks. 

"Vicchan has been with the family since forever. He lived with my grandparents and lived with their grandparents. He's been with us and the hot springs for thousands of years. I sometimes think he draws his power from the hot springs." Fake Yuuri looks up, staring at the seagulls flocking above. "I bet our family had the hot springs first before finding Vicchan." 

"No," says Victor. "Vicchan has been with your family longer. Hellhounds have been around far longer than Hasetsu's hot springs." He says it so seriously that Yuuri believes it has to be a joke, a silly concept created out of thin air to flirt with an unmated omega. 

"How do you think we found Vicchan?" 

Cocking his head, Victor thinks for a moment. "The ancient humans domesticated dogs by leaving scraps of food for the wolves. Perhaps, Vicchan found your family by falling in love with your family's secret recipe of katsudon?" 

Fake Yuuri gasps. "He would never be so shallow." 

Victor laughs, throwing his head back. "I agree,” he purrs, drawing out his words. More seriously, he pauses, "I don't think your family found Vicchan. He chose your family, because he loves the Katsukis." 

Fake Yuuri smiles, his eyes watering. Tears do not spill, however. "That's a nice thought." 

"Oh, but I'm certain it's the truth." 

Then the dreamscape changes. 

Everything is grainy, as if Yuuri is seeing the world through an old movie projector. As his eyes adjust, he realizes he's sitting in a movie theater with an empty paper bucket in his lap. The obnoxious IMAX logo flashes. 

He stares at it, confused. What does any of this have to do with the case? 

Some modern pop rock music blares out as the grainy screen projects some random snowy mountainside. Then a familiar voice screams, "It's JJ style!" Jean-Jacques Leroy, with stupid anime music kicking in, snaps on his black ski goggles and jumps down on a snowboard. The camera catches him weaving between trees until he stops at the end of the path. 

Tearing his goggles off, he waves at the camera. "Hello, everyone. I'm JJ, and it's so great to be here today! I've always wanted to do a movie." 

The title card slips in, JJ fading away. In bold letters, the title declares _JJ & Squad: Supernatural Hunters and YouTubers. _

The screen flips to a YouTube video. A younger JJ waves at the camera, grinning broadly. "Hey, it's your local hunter and today, we're going to test out a myth about grimoires and helping someone. First of all, do grimoires actually work? We brought in an expert to know more about these books witches have penned for centuries." 

The camera pans over to Phichit wearing a funny hat, a fake blonde beard, and a 90s blonde pornstache. Upon closer look, his hat has a hamster face on it. It's all a little too much for Yuuri. 

In a ridiculous Bollywood accent and a witch’s black robe, Phichit sagely informs, "Some grimoires are fake. The only way to truly determine a fake from a real is to test its spells." 

Yuuri feels like there's some serious cultural misappropriation going on here. 

JJ returns to the screen. "Today, we'll be trying a grimoire written in the early 17th century to help a girl in a mental ward for the last two years. Her sister claims she’s been possessed by a demon named Belial, who is a lesser demon in the lore.” He raises a dusty old leather book to the camera. “We’ll attempt to summon the demon into the sigil, drawing Abigail’s body here. Then the JJ squad will exorcise the demon out. So here we go!” 

Time in his dreamscape speeds up. The girl suddenly appears in the sigil. JJ and his squad chants Latin to draw out the demon. She’s freed from the possession as the demon escapes out of her through her mouth and eyes in a cloud of black smoke. 

JJ smiles. “We saved a soul today, but we couldn’t kill the demon without killing Abigail as all true demon hunters know. Remember to get an anti-possession tattoo to prevent demon possession! Any decent tattoo artist will know that tattoo by heart!” He flashes his fingers into two Js. “Until next week! It’s JJ Style!” 

Yuuri suddenly sits up in his bed. It’s a little dark in the morning.

“JJ.”


	2. Mara I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe by Yiruma

"I did not hear dream magic," Yakov says, probably losing hair by the second. "You write down either ‘anonymous source’ or come up with some logical explanation for the reports. But good discovery about JJ. Just say you remember seeing one of his YouTube videos. Do not cite dream magic." 

Yuuri politely nods. "Yes, sir." 

"Victor Nikiforov," mutters Yakov, slapping his palm against his face. His dark eyes glare at Yuuri, as if deeply annoyed by his very name. "Come up with some logical reasoning or angle for him to be somewhat involved in our cases and I'll be able to pull some more resources to look for him. Until then, Katsuki, you are stuck with Mickey and his department of cold cases." 

Once Yuuri leaves Yakov's office, he finds Phichit waiting casually in the hallway. 

"He didn't accept dream magic as a reasonable explanation." 

"Nope. Can't blame him." 

Yakov Feltsman knows very well of how dream magic holds up in court. Entire boxes of evidence have been tossed when witches back in the 60s who claimed to be experts in dream magic turned out to be frauds and were in on the crime itself. Dream magic has never been treated the same since then. A witch declaring themselves to be specialized in dream magic simply invites ridicule to themselves. It's the supernatural equivalent of going to the local police department and claiming to psychically know the killer in a murder case. Psychics aren't real. Academics has tested potential psychics for decades only to find no statistical evidence. 

"The hunters agreed to unofficially search for Nikiforov. Guang Hong is hijacking the software to run a worldwide search through databases for his face. Mickey is unhappy about them taking control of his case." 

Yuuri snorts. "Unofficially unhappy."

"Unofficially." 

The hunters must be bored. The most they could do is some research and questioning of witnesses at this stage in the investigation. There are yet to be any doors kicked down. Officially, they are traveling to Canada to question JJ Leroy and his squad of demon hunters. 

The theme song from _Twilight_ chimes. Phichit pulls out his phone from thin air. "Seung-gil just texted group chat. He found matches for all four victims in the Berlin case." 

"That was fast." 

"They were Berlin locals. Get this." Phichit shows Yuuri his phone screen, which is open to an official Interpol report. "Look at their pictures." 

Yuuri is struck by how young they all look. Each of them couldn't possibly be older than thirty. Puzzled, Yuuri squints and says, "That can't be right. Unless these photos were taken in the 70s—"

"Try five or so years ago. Mila pulled these from their driver licenses. The oldest is only twenty-five and they were all reported missing by their parents the same day their bodies were found." 

"He's draining their youth," realizes Yuuri. He glances at Phichit. "He's draining their life and youth." 

"Super experienced doing this, if we look by the degree of years taken from the victims." 

"Probably thousands of cold cases just like this. Old people with no names or identity, ending up as a box in archives." 

"Hopefully, a lot of those cases have been digitized. Mickey can create a search parameter to narrow down the cases." Phichit holds his phone up, his fingers already texting the werewolf. "Then we can find a pattern." 

Yakov's office door bangs open. The lead agent takes a long moment to stare at Yuuri and Phichit, who are still standing outside of his office. "Good," he grunts. "Both of you are here. Saves Georgi time. There are new bodies in front of the statue of Judith and Holofernes in Italy. Take Sara with you when you two portal. She'll know the exact address." 

"Will you be coming, sir?" Yuuri asks politely.

"No, the demon hunters are coming today. I must observe Ji and de la Iglesias' interrogation in person. I know how you people act in a case. I have not seen them before." 

Demon hunters sound like an impressive name for JJ and the Squad. Copyright, pending. 

"Okay," Yuuri nods, relieved. Yakov is not fun to be with at the international borders, which Yuuri has learned from past experience. Smaller groups go through the magical borders faster. 

"Nice break on the witch case," gruffly says Yakov. "I expect Mickey will be running an algorithm soon?" 

"He's already on it," confirms Phichit. 

Yakov puts on his hat. As he walks away, he mutters, "It's nice to be surrounded by competent people." 

Phichit and Yuuri end up picking up a few platinum-colored cases of Sara's equipment. Yuuri successfully convinced Phichit to not stop by his hotel room to check on his hamsters. With Sara arm-in-arm with Phichit, they easily make their way to the French border without any major incidents. 

"Interpol," says Yuuri, presenting his badge to the customs agent. "Party of three, official business. Portaling to Italy. We are carrying the standard CSI kit." 

"Any weapons?" 

"Standard issued firearm. Unloaded. Ammunition in one of my cases," says Sara, flipping through her wallet for her gun license. She then hands her badge to the customs agent, who runs it through the scanner. 

"And for the gentlemen? Any weapons to declare?" 

"We're witches," Phichit replies. It's an explanation and an answer all in one sentence. 

The border agent doesn't blink an eye. After two minutes of more mundane questions, he stamps them all through on their official paperwork and calls for the next party. If Yakov was here, he might be squabbling with the customs agent for going through unnecessary questions and procedures. It's not that entertaining when Yakov goes into a legal mode and begins to cite enough international and national laws to confuse anyone but an international lawyer. 

The portal connecting between international borders can only be used by witches and their companions. As a companion, Sara can't let go of Phichit at any time until she's completely in Italy or else she'll risk being scattered into pieces all throughout Europe. Yuuri has the great ordeal of carrying three heavy cases of forensic equipment into Italy. 

"Italy. Tuscany border, please," Phichit says to the portal operator. He hands her his paperwork. 

The witch nods. She calls out, "Tuscany, Italy. With one companion! Two groups!" 

In a dazzle of color, the portal opens. Unfolding like a flower, it stands straight like a wall and would blend into a star-filled night sky. Sara and Phichit walk through without a glance back, their backs fading into the pinpricks of light. 

"Second group!" She waves at Yuuri, beckoning him to walk into the portal. 

Yuuri does, his hands holding the cases tightly. Going through a portal is like being blasted into the sky in an airplane but also falling simultaneously without a parachute. It's disconcerting to see when there’s a messy tunnel of colors racing by. 

“Benvenuti a Pisa,” greets an Italian customs agent.

* * *

"Right in front of everyone," notes Sara, staring right at the old statue of a lady beheading a man. "Great place to do it, too. A biblical murder and a modern murder." 

"Not really that biblical. According to wikipedia, they're not considered canon," informs Phichit, scrolling through his phone. "I'm not sure why they chose this statue, but this scene does draw a lot of attention." 

"Locals found this in the morning and called the police," says Yuuri, looking at the three bodies. They all rest as if merely sleeping. Except for one, the man who lies on the entity's symbol. His eyes are open, and his mouth is frozen in a permanent scream. The rest of his body is eerily calm, peaceful. 

Phichit rolls some gloves on. He gently pulls aside the body serving as the mouthpiece, frowning at the rapid flashes of the press. He shouts at the local policemen. "Can we please have the barriers pushed at least fifty meters away? They're too close." 

"Sure," nods the inspector. In Italian, he relays Phichit's order, grimly watching the police push the crowd of rubberneckers back and away from the crime scene. 

"Blunt force trauma," confirms Sara. "Enough to knock them out but not enough to kill them. They're all humans. They have IDs in their pockets. This will be enough to confirm their identities." 

Yuuri closes the man's eyes. Rising, Yuuri glances out towards the crowd. He doesn't like the way they are all watching the crime scene, all of them trying to satisfy their curiosities. "We should move the bodies as soon as possible."

Phichit barely looks at the crowd. "Sara?" 

"Hang on. I have to collect some samples." Sara breaks open a case, pulling out a fresh q-tip. "Maybe five more minutes." 

Sweating under his coat, Yuuri strips off his gloves, disposing them into a can. His eyes scan the crowd, his vision unable to focus on any faces. He squints as he catches the flash of silver hair. On their own accord, his feet moves closer. He narrowly misses a policeman as he spies a man with silver hair and his back turned to Yuuri walking away. Yuuri has never felt so alive in this moment as his legs move faster. 

"Yuuri?" Phichit calls out in confusion. 

Police officers let Yuuri pass. 

The silver-haired man, standing out in a crowd of tourists, slowly walks away from the scene of three murders in an expensive suit and Italian shoes. The man next to him, casually strolling with Interpol's unofficial most wanted, blends in with the tourists if it isn't for the mushroom-like hairstyle he's had for the last hundred or so years. 

Yuuri runs, his coat billowing as he chases the duo. He does not dare to blink as dozens of tourists come between him and the two persons of interest. 

When the tourists clear, only Chris Giacometti remains. No sight of Victor Nikiforov. Yuuri doesn't have a minute to think about this as he narrows the distance between him and Chris. Whispering a spell for camouflage and silence, he pulls out specialized cuffs from his coat. 

It's a long jump when Yuuri crashes into Chris. "Interpol," Yuuri declares, a little out of breath. "You're under arrest." 

The crossroad demon purrs. "I'm offended. No dinner first?"

* * *

"What have I done now?" Chris asks, blinking innocently at Yuuri. "Seduce a prime minister's wife? Steal a baby? Convince some Catholics to ride the highway to hell?" He shakes his handcuffs. "This is kinky. You have a devil's trap on me yet you'll still keep these on." 

Chris Giacometti, real demon name unknown, is known by two reputations. To most people, he's a high roller playboy who throws amazing parties and has tried every vice there is and then some. To the supernatural world and community, he's a crossroad demon who will give you anything you want for the low, low, low price of your soul. Hunter societies came together to destroy his last body, which led the demon to inhabit a permanently comatose patient named Chris Giacometti. Hence, the name. 

Most demon hunters stopped trying to kill him back in the 50s. He's a nuisance and a terror, but he never tricked anyone into giving him their soul and he's far better than the more dangerous alternatives. Since the 50s, Chris has seduced far more demon hunters than killed. 

Yuuri doesn't blink. He tries not to adjust the comm in his ear. It's tickling him. "Why were you at the crime scene?"

"I thought about revisiting some art. I spent many months in Donatello's bed. He's such a passionate, great artist. He wasn't born with the best set of tools, but he sure knew how to use them," Chris says, his eyes a little dreamy as he loses himself in his memories. "His touch is so fine." 

Yuuri ignores Phichit’s odd giggle in his ear. 

"The crime scene is focused on communicating with a demon." Yuuri opens a folder and pushes the picture of the entity's symbol. "Do you recognize this?" 

Chris's eyes barely pass a glance over the picture. "It's not the devil's calling card and it's not mine. That's all I can tell you." 

"Do you have any clue to who—"

"Yuuri," Chris purrs. "There are legions of demons in hell. Each one has their own calling sign. I only know the signs of those I know intimately." 

"And the devil is one of them?" 

"The devil is a celebrity. Everyone knows it." 

Yuuri opens the folder again. He pushes a photo turned face down to Chris. "Do you know who this is?" 

Chris doesn't move towards it. His eyes flicker at Yuuri, as if sensing a weakness Yuuri himself doesn't know. Losing his flirtatious persona, he slowly says, "Yuuri, do you believe in God?" 

The witch snaps his finger. A passport photo of Victor Nikiforov faces up. He repeats, "Do you know who this is?" 

"Yes," Chris answers, surprisingly honest in tone. "But do you?" 

Yuuri doesn't blink. "I'm asking you." He pauses, "You were with him earlier today at the crime scene. Don't bother denying it. We have photos from the street cameras and the local ATM. What were you two discussing?" 

"Oh, Victor and I see each other every once in a while. We were catching up." 

"In front of a murder scene?" 

"It's a lot more interesting than being at a restaurant." 

"Yet, not even four minutes ago, you said you were there to view your dead lover's art," Yuuri points out, shoving down his pheromones. He tries not to look too satisfied in front of the demon. 

Chris smiles. "Yes, I supposed we stumbled upon it." 

Yuuri folds his hands on the table. "Chris, why don't you tell me why you and Victor were at a crime scene?" 

"You wouldn't believe me."

The witch tilts his head. "Try." 

"I admit I was not there to look at Donatello's art. It's amazing, but he's been dead for almost a thousand years. I have many fond memories of him. I actually was there, because I felt a disturbance in Hell that was reaching to Earth. The disturbance is connected to one of Hell's many prisons." 

"Prison?" 

"How well do you know the story of the rebellion against God, Yuuri?" 

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me.” The closest religion he grew up with was Buddhism. He also knows the Japanese myths like the back of his hand. He started out as a local witch in Japan before Celestino noticed his talent and knack for solving mysteries and expelling ghosts. 

Chris leans back in the chair, the handcuffs tinkering. “A long, long time ago, when an angel disguised as a serpent convinced Eve to take a bite out of the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, a war broke out in Heaven.”

“Okay, I just lost all respect for this dude,” says Phichit, through the comms. 

Yuuri shoves the urge to shush him down his throat. 

Chris continues, “It was between the angels who believed in God’s will against those who supported Lucifer. They were quickly cast out and thrown to earth. They became the fallen." A pause. "Lucifer himself was sealed into the depths of Hell by the archangels. Six hundred sixty-six seals block him from breaking free. He can't be freed until sixty-six seals have been broken. Supposedly, he won't be leaving his prison until sixty-nine of them are broken." At Yuuri's confused expression, he explains, "Lilith insulted him a century ago. He was not happy with what she said, apparently. He likes watching demons run around in circles for him." There's a tone of bitterness in his words. 

"But," Yuuri says, "Lucifer is a myth." 

"You're a witch, I'm a demon, and the disrespectful cutie behind that window is a witch sitting next to a werewolf. We were all myths at some point. Then we became real." 

Yuuri forces himself back to the topic at hand. "But what is your point about Lucifer and these seals?" 

"The antichrist was born sixteen years ago. Lilith is not pleased about his disappearance, because they wasted sixteen years warping an innocent child into a psychopath. They've been planning this for the last century. Most of the dominos are falling in their places. They have broken thirty-eight seals so far. Haven't you people noticed the sharp increase in supernatural cases? The sound of Gabriel's horn in Texas? The lance in South Korea?" 

Yuuri treats that as a rhetorical question. He has not heard about a horn, but he has heard of the lance. "But why were you and Victor at the crime scene?" 

"I was asking if he knew where the antichrist is. Victor has been around for a long time, and I was hoping he had an idea of what happened sixteen years ago." 

Yuuri blinks, tilting his head. He's not quite certain he believes Chris. Pretending he does, he asks, "So why tell us any of this?" 

Sighing, Chris leans in. "I don't want the end of the world. I like the world the way it is. Lucifer takes over, and it will not be the same as before. He's going to start a war against Heaven on earth. Say goodbye to all the casinos, spas, and cucumbers in the world. I'll personally miss the sex shop on 5th Avenue." 

Yuuri tries not to think about the details of the demon's answer. He inquires, "Do you have any information about the murders in the Plazza?" 

"Not really. I know it's one of Lilith's human underlings who sold their soul to her doing this, but other than. . ." Chris taps his fingers against his chin. "It might have something to do with a seal. That's the most I can tell you about these murders." 

"What are the seals?" 

"The death of the first demon. The raising of the dead. There's a whole list written down in a book somewhere." 

The witch shifts gears. "Tell me what you know about Victor Nikiforov." 

Chris hesitates. "He's older than me. He can't be found if you're looking for him. He'll find you." 

Yuuri narrows his eyes. The information seems remarkably little. "But you two are friends?" 

"I don't think anyone can call themselves a friend to a being like that. I believed he's Koschei, a supernatural being from the Slavic myths, but that's the most I can say about him." He shrugs. "He's very Russian." 

His mind flashes back to his dreams. Russian. That's what Fake Yuuri said too. Yuuri doesn't react. This information is far more precise than what the hunter societies and the Crispinos have discovered. "About Lucifer and the seals. What does he think about them?" 

The demon darkly smiles. "He will do nothing to stop it. He doesn't care." 

"He doesn't care about the end of the world? Why?" 

“Here’s what is not said in the fairy tales. Koschei loved an omega named Marya Morevna. The omega died as mortals do. Marya died sometime in the 12th century, lost to him forever. As an immortal, he could not die unless someone kills him by finding his life in a needle in an egg.” Chris pauses, as if formulating his words. “I think he hopes that the Apocalypse will kill him and allow him to reunite with his Marya.” 

For some reason, a strange strand of envy crawls up Yuuri’s throat.

* * *

“He’s lying.”

Yuuri turns around. Chris has been freed to do whatever he wants a couple hours ago, but it feels like Chris or maybe his words are still around. Yuuri can’t help but think of them over and over again, trying to see it from different angles. Yuuri stares at the fellow witch, who leans against the hallway. “What do you mean he’s lying?”

“Russian hunters digitized their archives five years ago. I looked up their records. There was a hunter named Ivan Morevna who slaughtered and burned Koschei in the 11th century. His wife, Marya, was also a hunter.” He shows Yuuri his phone screen. “This is Koschei. Drawn by Marya.” 

It’s a drawn sketch of a Russian man. He’s dark and imposing, his black eyes glaring at those who dare to even look at him. His jaw looks sharp enough to cut a man. He wields a needle in his fingers and a jeweled egg in another hand. 

"We got a recording of the interview, right?" 

Phichit nods. "Yakov will be reviewing it. Our instruments were saying he started lying right around when you asked questions about what is Victor Nikiforov. I couldn't tell you, because it's clear he could hear our comms." 

"But he was not lying about the Apocalypse and the seals?" 

"Not that I can tell. He was telling the truth for the most part. Especially in the middle of the interview."

Yuuri pulls out his phone. "Can you send me the file about Koschei?" 

"Yeah, sure." 

Yuuri frowns as his phone pings with an incoming text message from Mila. He reads it.

_JJ Transcript Docx Attachment_

Then another text. 

_JJ says we have to look for the Book of Enoch, which may point us to the correct demon._

The one more. 

_Swedish researchers are lending a copy of a grimoire that might help us with the life-stealing witch. Called the Book of Mara. Someone has to pick it up from the airport when it arrives._

"You going to read the transcript?" 

"Yeah, I'll do it at home." 

"Same. But after I feed my hamsters." 

* * *

The lights of Madrid disappear when Yuuri switches the bedroom light on. He doesn't bother to draw the curtains. He doubts someone will be watching him from the next building with binoculars. Who would even want to watch him? 

In his pajamas, Yuuri summons his work laptop from his coat and begins the great and complicated process of reading a long interview transcript centering around one of the most obnoxious internet personalities. Yuuri, unfortunately, has met JJ before. JJ was trying to summon a demon and ended up nabbing Yuuri in the middle of teleporting across Canada. He got a mouthful of holy water and a halfhearted apology for his trouble. 

He scrolls through the report summary, not really reading any of it. He stops scrolling when he finds the beginning of the transcript. 

**Ji: Please state your full name.**

**Leroy: Jean-Jacques Leroy. Ah, listen, I want to say that I hope I'm not in trouble. I know it's unorthodox to be livestreaming my hunts, but fans love it. It helps bring awareness and better understanding of the supernatural world instead of the make believe in mainstream movies and media.**

**de la Iglesias: JJ, we're only here to hear what you know.**

**Ji: Have you summoned demons before?**

**Leroy: Yeah, I videotaped the earlier times I summoned them. Saved a lot of lives but eventually, demons got mad about it. We had to stop.**

**Ji: What happened?**

**Leroy: Not everyone on my squad believed in demons. Some of them were in this for fame or for money. They thought my parents were somehow creating the cases for us to solve. Isabella, who didn't believe in it back then, got possessed. Things started happening. My camera crew got into a car accident after seeing an illusion of a baby on the road. Ghosts were haunting us at night. We couldn't sleep until we agreed to the contract.**

**Ji: Contract?**

**Leroy: With the demons. No, we didn't sell our souls or anything! We looked over the contract for days to make sure there wasn't anything we didn't like in there. We agreed to stop livestreaming demon summonings and the resulting exorcism, and they will leave us alone. They won't harass us or kill us. That's it.**

**Ji: You also stopped filming about werewolves and vampires.**

**Leroy: We got some stern letters from lawyers of angry people we filmed. So we are limited to ghost and urban legends. Mostly ghosts.**

**Ji: How did you know how to summon demons?**

**Leroy: You're kidding me, right? You're Interpol. Don't you have some demon hunters in employment? There aren't that many of us, but you got to have at least one.**

**Ji: Answer the question.**

**Leroy: We copied the sigils from the Book of Enoch. It has a list of a lot of demons' symbols. Not all of them. We couldn't find one for the demon called Abaddon.**

Yuuri's phone pings. The witch briefly glances over the notifications. It's a text from Leo de la Iglesias, strangely not texted in the group chat. Yuuri unlocks his phone and reads the message. 

_I've unofficially found the dude you're looking for. He's an American citizen working in Madrid, Spain. He's a trauma surgeon employed by Hospital Universitario La Paz. There's a PO box listed for him, but I got nothing else. He doesn't drive, he is not on any social media, and he doesn't even have a photo on any doctor review sites. I only got him, because the hospital has all staff photos on their database._

Then another text. 

_It'll take a while for me to dig for his past records, if there are any._

Yuuri texts him back. _Thanks, Leo._

_No problem._

Yuuri sets aside his laptop. He opens the door to the balcony, letting the night breeze tease his hair. Hospital Universitario La Paz. He knows exactly where that is. He's staring right at the building, the building with more lit windows than dark. That hospital is one of the best in Spain. He wonders for long he has been unknowingly glancing at Victor Nikiforov's direction. Interpol's unofficially most wanted, right under his nose. He wonders, how long has he and Victor been living in the same city? 

Yuuri texts Georgi. _I'm coming in at 8 tomorrow morning._

He's quick to respond. _Okay. Are you still picking up the Book of Mara from the airport? I can ask someone else to pick it up._

Paddling back to his bed, Yuuri types back. _I’ll pick it up. I have the paperwork._

The witch sends both the laptop and his phone over to the nightstand. He buries himself underneath his comforters, sinking into the warmth. He turns to face the open windows, his eyes glancing at the lit building of the Hospital Universitario La Paz. He wonders if Victor Nikiforov is working in the ER right this moment. 

His dreamscape rises up, overtaking reality. He's fevered, his heart racing as he burrows deeper into his nest. Yuuri hasn't nested since his last heat, but this does not feel like one of his usual heats. He's surrounded by the beloved scent of a satisfied alpha. Rich, dark chocolate with the slight bitter tang of iron. 

He does not freak out or scream when Victor Nikiforov himself presents with a plate of cut fruits in the doorway. It's only a dream, after all. There's nothing dangerous about a dream like this. 

"Yuuri, love. Care for some persimmons? Freshly cut. Got it from the market this morning." 

Persimmons. Yuuri has been craving that all day, now that he's thinking about it. And other fruits, now that he is really thinking about it. He still hasn’t gone shopping for groceries. It’s been on his to-do list for days. 

Victor, crawling onto the bed carefully with one plate on his hand, smiles at Yuuri. He's wearing a yukata Yuuri knows intimately well. The same one given to all the guests at his family's hot springs. 

Yuuri rises from the bed, his mouth opening to receive a piece of the juicy, orange fruit. 

Ignoring the part that he's with Victor Nikiforov, Yuuri admits it's a good dream. He's being fed with a hand of a beautiful alpha, whose yukata is far too loose on his body. It's slipping indecently. Yuuri can see his nipple. 

Pink. 

After the fifth piece, Yuuri coyly murmurs, "I'm not really hungry for fruit, Vitenka." With a twitch of his finger, he sends the plate flying to the kitchen. 

"Oh?" Victor raises a curious eyebrow. "I can get you some breakfast if you—" 

Yuuri jumps, literally. He straddles the alpha's thighs, pushing the alpha's torso down to the bed. He can get lost into the sight of Victor's eyes, the way his azure eyes dilate in awe at the way Yuuri rises over his form. There is something in the way this alpha looks at him. As if Yuuri’s the rising tide, the blue moon, the sun, the stars, and all that’s _good_ in the world wrapped up in one. But that’s silly, because he can’t possibly compare to any of them. 

But in this alpha’s eyes, he does. 

He shoves the offending fabric off his alpha. The yukata slips underneath them, unnoticed. Victor’s fingers quickly undo the ties of Yuuri’s jinbei. They roll over as Victor’s hands grip the back of Yuuri’s neck. 

Victor’s eyes close, his mouth inching downwards. 

The moment Victor’s lips met his is the moment Yuuri _knows_ he’s coming home. Home is in Victor’s arms. Home is in Victor’s kiss. Home is being wrapped by this alpha’s sinfully sculpted biceps as his fingers delicately unwrap Yuuri like a present. In the back of his mind, Yuuri knows he can probably stare for _weeks_ at those biceps. 

Victor pulls away. His eyes glimmer at the omega. "Are you alright?" 

"No," breathes Yuuri. "I'm perfect." 

"You certainly are," replies Victor, kissing his way down Yuuri's neck and nibbling away at his scent gland. He goes lower, lavishing attention on Yuuri's nipple. He hums, pleased, when Yuuri sharply gasps in shock. 

Yuuri wouldn't mind if Victor plays with his nipples forever. 

It's not Victor's ultimate destination, however. He begins the slow descent again, going all the way down Yuuri's belly button and kissing the side of Yuuri's hardened but neglected cock. It’s still not the alpha’s goal, even as he licks a hot stripe down the vein. Saliva pools on Victor’s tongue as he spreads Yuuri’s legs open. He stares for a moment longer than necessary. 

“Victor,” begs Yuuri, his voice strained. 

“You’re so beautiful, my love. If only we can stay in this moment forever.” 

Yuuri doesn’t have time to respond to Victor’s words. He could only gasps in shock as Victor's tongue dives deep between his folds, plunging in as he eats Yuuri out as if feasting on a meal for the first time since forever. Yuuri's thighs clench, squeezing the alpha's head, maybe crushing him.

Victor doesn't seem to mind. 

When Yuuri comes undone underneath Victor's ministrations, the alpha does not pull away. Even as Yuuri squirms and pants in the rosy aftermath of an orgasm, Victor holds Yuuri's thighs apart, stretching him even further. 

"Ah, Victor!" Yuuri gasps, wiggling. "I can't—" 

He can't possibly climax again. Not so soon. 

This, Victor pulls away at. His fingers part Yuuri's folds, exposing his hole to cool air and his alpha's intense eyes. "Oh, Yuuri," he purrs. "You absolutely can."

His fingers, so nimble and assured, slip in, teasing Yuuri's sensitive nerves. Victor's tongue returns to lavish attention as he draws Yuuri closer to another peak, as if plucking strings in Yuuri's nerves to draw the perfect notes out of the omega. Yuuri's cock, untouched, hardens again, leaking onto his stomach. 

Yuuri's eyes open wide. "Ah, Vitya!" His head snaps back in shock. 

Victor slowly licks the slick off his fingers. _"Vskuno."_

Escaping from his dreamscape, Yuuri suddenly sits up, his eyes snapping open. He’s unbearably hot, his sheets soaked with sweat. When he kicks off his blankets, he’s aware of the slick squelching in his black briefs. It’s mixed in with his sweat. He doesn't remember being this wet since high school. 

He glances over at the clock. It’s thirty-three minutes past four o’clock. There is absolutely no way he’ll be able to go back to sleep. 

And he has no idea how he’ll be able to meet Victor later today.

* * *

He showered and sprayed a copious amount of the ridiculously manly cologne Phichit jokingly gave him on his birthday. He remembered returning Phichit's gift by giving him a case of cheap wine for the New Year's. In his opinion, Phichit got the better end of the deal. He's standing in front of the magnificent shiny statue standing in guard of the hospital. 

One of the best public hospitals in Spain. 

As Yuuri stands right outside of its ER, he tries to think of a way to approach. If this is a case Yuuri is working on, he would flash his badge and usually be let in. He could do the same thing in this situation, but if they called Interpol, they would quickly discover he's not there on official business. 

Yuuri ends up deciding to simply go up to the receptionist in the ER. He does not reach for his badge, though his hands nearly do out of sheer habit. He slips on the translation spell with a twist of his wrist. There is thankfully no line in the ER, but there is a family nervously waiting in the seats. 

The lady reaches for a clipboard, possibly for a patient. 

Yuuri shakes his head. "It's not an emergency. I apologize for coming through here, I couldn't find the proper entrance. I'm looking for a Dr. Victor Nikiforov." 

Her hand pulls back. Her eyes light up in recognition. "Oh! Dr. Chung, right? Dr. Nikiforov is expecting you." 

Yuuri kind of wants to thank whoever is Dr. Chung. He nods and says, "Is this a good time?" 

She stands up and nods back. "I'll go check to see if he's available to talk right now." She offhandedly murmurs, "His Spanish is very good." 

What she means is that Yuuri didn't fudge his translation spell. 

Yuuri awkwardly stands, feeling the eyes of the family boring holes at his back. His coat has never felt so heavy until now. 

She comes back two minutes later. Blushing red, she apologizes, "Sorry. He's in surgery right now and will be for approximately another two hours. Can you wait?" 

Yuuri shakes his head. If he waits, there is no way he could make it to Lyon on time. 

She hums. "I can forward him your phone number." She reaches for a notepad from the drawer. "I'll make sure he gets it." 

Yuuri is not sure Victor wouldn't take off and run once he realized he's not the real Dr. Chung but rather Interpol. Nevertheless, he jots down his personal phone number. 

She waves the notepad as he leaves. "I'll pass it on!"

* * *

There's something incredibly _wrong_ with the Book of Mara. Instinctively, fundamentally wrong. Like a perversion with the constant laws of the universe, a complete violation of nature. Yuuri’s first instinct is to set this book on fire. Yuuri voices this feeling aloud. 

Standing in a spare conference room surrounded by hard copies of evidence, Phichit says, "No one let Yuuri burn the book. It belongs to the Swedish government." 

Mickey, wearing gloves, pulls it out of the silver protective box. "I requested it from the Swedish government, once we've discovered the witch is specifically a Soul-eater." At Phichit's confused face, he says, "It's a blend of both life-stealing and youth-draining magic. The Swedes had a book that will tell you precisely how to Soul-eat a living organism." He gently places it on the table. "This is the book. They requested we treat the book delicately. You must use gloves if you want to touch the book." 

Yuuri backs away from the book. It doesn't look old at all. It must be the 18th century at the oldest, judging by the binding of the book. 

"This book was inherited by the Kingdom of Sweden from the Kalmar Union in the 15th century. Bureaucrats have maintained a readable copy of the Book of Mara for the last few hundred years," informs Mickey, slowly opening the cover. "The book is unfortunately in Swedish." 

"I got a translation spell and a Swedish to English dictionary that'll give us a rough translation." Phichit snaps his fingers in thought. 

"How," Yuuri chokes, collecting his thoughts. "How did they find this book?" 

"According to old records from the Kalmar Union, a hunter found a witch who was unnaturally prolonging his life. Killing him ended bloody. They seized whatever possessions he had and copied his bloodied copy of the Book of Mara." Mickey continues, "The researchers at the university were curious if it was _the Book of Mara."_

Yuuri raises an eye at the name. Judging by Mickey's face, it's supposed to be a big deal. Phichit seems confused as well. "What did they mean by that?" 

Mickey flips through a few pages, his eyes pouring through the unreadable script. "In the Bible, specifically the Book of Ruth, a woman named Naomi lost her two sons. The significance of the Book of Ruth is the relationship between Naomi and her daughter-in-law, Ruth. Here's what the Swedish researchers thought. This is not considered the biblical canon. They believed Naomi was a witch who was a Soul-eater and went by the name of Mara. The Book of Mara is written by her." 

"Book of Ruth, Book of Mara. And demons calling down the Apocalypse," mutters Phichit. "It all goes back to the Bible." 

Looking vaguely pained, Mickey stresses, "It's not really part of the canon. Also, we're not certain we are facing the Apocalypse." He waves a gloved hand at Phichit. 

"Is there a story about the Book of Mara?" 

"The story goes that Naomi was a witch. A Soul-eater who killed a lot of people. This was before and after she lost her sons. She spent some years as Mara, creating spellwork and heinous rituals. All of it is written down in the book. She kept herself young and immortal by absorbing people's lives," explains Mickey, his nose pinched. "She stopped being Mara when she fell in love with Ruth. It was a pivotal moment in the Book of Ruth, when Ruth devoted herself to Naomi." 

"So she's dead? Since she stopped?" 

"Ruth was most likely not a witch. Ruth famously said to Naomi, 'Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried.'" Mickey speaks every word with passion, from memory, from heart. It’s oddly reminiscent of Georgi. "Ruth one-sixteen." 

The witches stare at him. 

"Mickey, are you religious?" Phichit finally asks. 

"Catholic. Born and raised. Sara doesn't go anymore. She doesn't believe." He turns to the witch. "Can you two please begin translations?" 

"Yeah," Yuuri manages to squeak out. He pulls a blue seeing stone and a dictionary out of his pocket. Pulling on gloves, he takes a seat at the conference table. He shoves down his feelings of foreboding, and he places his left hand on the Swedish-English dictionary. 

The seeing stone, made out of a jade-like gem, has a hole to allow the eye see through it. 

"You start from the front, I'll go from the back," Phichit says, taking a seat on Yuuri's right. He plucks a snow-white hamster from his pants and fills a short glass with crystal clear water. Besides him, a notepad and pen stands at ready to transcribe. 

The hamster squeaks a few times at Phichit, its paws reaching out to the other witch. 

“Oh, oops! I forgot.” With a snap of his fingers, tiny gloves appear on the hamster’s paws. Phichit smiles fondly as the hamster squeaks a few more times, running to open up Phichit’s Swedish-English dictionary. 

The translation takes a ridiculously long time. There are about four hundred pages to go through, and none of the rituals are humane, moral, or politically correct. The ritual on creating great thunderstorms from "spilling of innocent, young blood" does not inspire much hope for humanity in Yuuri. He's feeling depressed by the tenth ritual on the corrupting nature and the poisoning of rivers to ensure the death of any life that dares to drink a single drop from it. 

"What were the Swedish researchers trying to do again?" Yuuri cracks his head, his eyes sore from looking through the seeing stone for so long. His laptop stops clattering as his magic rests for a moment. 

"Uh," Phichit pauses, flipping through some pages in a nearby stack of paperwork. "Trying to read between the lines to determine if the information written down is Naomi from the Bible. They were having a difficult time, because this book is a translation of the original one in Hebrew, which has been lost." Phichit squints at the Swedish notes Mickey left them. 

Yuuri has determined that the academic researchers will have better luck drawing blood from stone at this rate. It's a truly fruitless endeavor to try to pull some semblance of clues from a translated work that has been around for thousands of years according to the legends. The real Book of Mara, if it has ever existed, would have been destroyed by time. Nevertheless, the story of Mara is nice to think about. Love overcoming, conquering darkness. 

Yuuri puts the seeing stone right back to his face. Working on the fifteenth ritual while his laptop types down a translation, Yuuri reads, _Necromancy, the false art of bringing a beloved back to life._

It already doesn't sound good to Yuuri. 

The author goes into details about their speculation why necromancy never works. _There is a part of the body that is inevitably lost when dead. Even as the body moves and speaks and appears as if alive, there is no spirit to inhabit the body. The body possesses no thought or will but the witch's. There is no one home. I suspect something comes to take the spirit away._

It sounds like a real witch. 

_A true resurrection, a resurrection that brings back the person’s memories, thoughts, ideas, and the essence of what makes them_ them, _is truly impossible from previous experiments._

The witch dives into a few experiments, which start off with small animals. Insects, small birds, snakes, cats, and then finally, a person. 

_They’re merely an extension of myself._

Yuuri has studied a bit of necromancy under his parents’ tutelage. They’ve never gone into the appalling details, the very nitty gritty of making a corpse move and breathe and eat. He’s suddenly reminded of Dr. Frankenstein and his monster. 

He flips the page to the next ritual, careful not to startle Phichit’s hamster on the other side of the book. 

The next three rituals violate the International Witches Union’s laws. Thou shalt not kill, check. Thou shalt not magically manipulate a human or an intellectual being, which includes vampires and werewolves in a later amendment, through their emotions or thoughts, check. Thou shalt not torture, check. 

The next one is on torture as well. 

The title is fairly innocuous, however. _Keeping a being alive under extreme circumstances._ It doesn’t even look like torture until Yuuri gets to the witch’s third paragraph and realize how that “being” ended up in such “extreme curcumstances.” Here, the witch lovingly says, _The blood may flow slowly from his pale, sour skin, but the man will not pass until the sigil breaks. He’s beholden to breathe for as long as he has lungs in the circle—or until I release the magic of the sigil. He may remain there for days, unnaturally so. The longest I’ve done yet is fifteen days. But I'm certain it would have lasted longer, if I wasn’t interrupted._

This one actually does have practical uses, if Yuuri ignores the horrible things the witch says in the details. A patient in a hospital could possibly be insured of their life on the surgery table as long as the sigil holds. But does it mean that when the sigil falls, they automatically die? Yuuri is guessing the witch pushes their victims to the brink of death, but what if a witch specializing in healing magic brings them back from death’s door and releases the sigil? Would the patient die or survive? 

Yuuri makes a note to forward a request to the Swedish government and Interpol to continue this particular avenue of research. The potential is too great to ignore. 

Neck deep in another dark spell, Yuuri almost misses the ping of his phone. He removes his hand from the dictionary and peers at the text message through the seeing stone. 

It's a text from Leo. _Your trauma surgeon once worked for a major hospital, now defunct, in the Saga Prefecture, Kyushu, Japan as Viktor Nikans. 1961-1980. He's in the medical personnel database. The software found a photo. Circa 1973._

For a crazy moment, Yuuri thinks Victor may be actually stalking him. First Madrid and now Japan. Hasetsu is located in Saga Prefecture. However, it's more likely to be a coincidence. Yuuri was born in 1968, born seven years after Victor had began working at the hospital. 

The second message is the photo. It's nothing as sinister as the one of Victor serenely walking in the midst of a genocide. There's a young Japanese girl with a horrible mess of bandages around her torso. She's smiling. Victor Nikiforov stands slightly behind her with a team of nurses and doctors, his face slightly obscured by the surgical mask. 

He looks the same, as if he's never aged. 

Yuuri feels a flash of curiosity as he wonders if the real Dr. Chung showed up at the hospital. He wonders if he's been caught in his own lie. He wonders if he might have to take a few days off from his job to see if he could stalk Victor. That one might be going too far. 

Setting his phone aside, he returns to the time consuming effort of translation. He goes through the next few rituals, ignoring the graphic details of the witch's murders and mutilation of the corpses. 

Between the torture and sacrificing of a small animal for magical fuel, there is one pleasant ritual on recreating terrible memories of the victim in reality. _So lifelike and realistic that I could touch his father's chin and feel the stubble of hair as he beat his son in memory. The feeling of his hair. Coarse and unrefined. Oily._

The witch delves into grimmer details. Far too many details about the horror in the victim's eyes and the confusion they expressed afterwards as they watched their worst memories over and over and over. 

Yuuri quickly moves onto the next page. 

The laptop types itself, entering the translated text into the document. _What's after?_

_Sometimes, I could almost kill and then revive the person. I see through their eyes for a moment. A brightness of light, an encompassing feeling of relief, of peace as they pass. Then they come back to tell me of what they see._

_"Nothing," says one._

_"A tunnel. Dark. The end is light."_

_I'm not satisfied with their answer. I've drained enough lives to live three more decades. It's far longer than I have any right to live. I've outlived my two sons, and I will outlive my wife. She's far younger than me, younger than my sons. I've retaken up my craft in hope that she outlives me, the way it's supposed to be._

Three paragraphs later, after a lot of too many details and too much information about the victims, the witch simply says, _She's gone._

Then at the very end: _I want to know what’s beyond. I hope you're there. I'm sorry what you've said is true. Death does separate us. I'm sorry._

Yuuri sighs. The evidence does look tempting. It _does_ look like a book written by Mara, by Naomi. This passage is perhaps the best clue he's seen so far. It's the largest offering of the author to the readers. 

Yuuri's phone buzzes again. 

Taking his hand off the dictionary once again, Yuuri unlocks his phone and notices the new notification of a text message. It's from an unknown phone number with a Spanish country code. Yuuri remembers leaving his phone number with a receptionist working in the Emergency Room. 

Victor? 

He reads the text message through the seeing stone. He feels a hot flash of annoyance when the words stubbornly remain in Spanish. He sets the stone on the table and slips on a translation spell on his glasses. He blinks until the Spanish words rearrange themselves into something he can actually read. 

_I'm sorry that I was not able to meet you today. I'm afraid I will be busy volunteering at a clinic for the rest of today and tomorrow. The ER was packed due to a pileup of cars. No one died, thankfully._

Then another text. 

_I'll be happy to meet up for dinner on Friday. I have made a reservation under my name at Corral de la Moreria. 9pm. Dress casual._

This could only be one person. Yuuri distantly remembers his fevered dream last night and forces a cough down his throat. He ignores Phichit's look of concern. 

The third and final text is the address to the restaurant. 

Friday. That’s less than two days away. That will give Yuuri enough time to scope out the restaurant and to show up in a proper attire. He wouldn’t want to look like an idiot by overdressing or underdressing for dinner. He wants to look perfectly presentable, someone who doesn’t stand out among the crowd. 

"Yuuri, you okay?" 

"Absolutely peachy," he lies.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased that you are all here to see my brand new apartment in France." Phichit waves his hands in grand gestures towards the said apartment. Lurking in the corner, the hamsters in the cage squeak outlandishly. "It's also nice to have almost everyone here outside of work." 

"Seung-gil is not here. He will never stop working," says Mickey, confused. He holds a glass of untouched cheap wine between his fingers. 

"Phichit said almost everyone, Mickey," Sara points out, clearly exasperated by her twin. She takes a sip from her whiskey. "Not everyone." 

Pulling off his shoes, Yuuri quietly places his house-warming gifts with the rest of the pile on the table. He can tell which one is Mila’s automatically. It’s the one inappropriately phallic-shaped with hamster wrapping paper. Yuuri knows. He got one just like it several years ago when Phichit forced him to throw a house-warming party in Madrid. The gift was a nice ceramic vase Mila made in her spare time. The way she padded it with biodegradable packing peanuts made it look socially unacceptable. 

“Rules for tonight,” declares Phichit. “No talking about work—”

Glancing at his laptop sitting on the kitchen counter, Leo clears his throat. 

“Okay, only talking about work, if Leo and Guang Hong’s software found anything useful. Or if we have any new developments in the case.” 

Mickey coughs. 

“Or if Yakov decides to call us in on our off-hours,” adds Phichit, sweeping his arms dramatically with an exaggerated sigh. “We’re here in my apartment to get horribly drunk and shit-faced enough to make Yakov lose the rest of his hair the next morning. He would have no choice but to call his ex-wife to cry about it. We’re going to rate my presents on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the best. That being said, no one will have a score of one. My hamster, Arthur, will make the final judgement on who has the best and worst gift.” He pauses, “And before we do that, you guys have to help me unpack.” 

Yuuri already knows the drill. He levitates a line of boxes so helpfully labeled as _master bedroom_ and walks in into said room. This isn’t the first house-warming party Phichit has thrown. Phichit could have used his magic to simply unpack everything, but he would never pass up on an excuse to throw a party. 

With a flick of his fingers, Phichit’s clothes hang themselves in his walk-in closet. He ultimately decides not to unpack the box full of hamster toys. It takes merely three minutes for the bathroom essentials to find their new homes and rightful places. Yuuri even incinerates the old dust and toothpaste specks off the dirty mirror. 

A simple wave of his hands sends the bed sheets tucking its corners around the mattress. The comforters roll themselves open, and the pillows fly across the room to rest at the head of the mattress. 

Concentrating on the final box, Yuuri forces the brand new dresser from IKEA to assemble itself. Nails dive into holes, and the drawers seal themselves in. Yuuri casts the little wood shavings into nothing. Yuuri is about to set up the Wi-Fi router when he’s suddenly interrupted. 

“Wow, you’re practically done,” says Leo, surprised. 

“Witchcraft,” explains Yuuri. 

“I know Phichit said no work talk, but did you manage to find anything about the doctor?” Leo asks, fidgeting with some wires. They appear to be part of Phichit’s gaming controller. Why Leo decides it needs to be opened, Yuuri has no idea. 

“Unofficially?”

“Unofficially,” corrects Leo, nodding. “Did you find anything?” 

“I’m unofficially meeting him for dinner on Friday,” Yuuri admits. “I don’t think he knows he’s meeting up with an Interpol agent and not one of his friends.”

"Friday? That's tomorrow!"

"Yes," Yuuri curtly nods. 

“Need backup?” offers the hunter. “I got some friends in Spain who can get a car ready with all of the equipment necessary for hunting.” 

Yuuri shakes his head. “It’s only a conversation. I don’t have any authority to arrest him. I already asked Yakov, and he said before that meeting with a known demon or showing up to rubberneck at a crime scene is not enough evidence to apprehend someone. If it was, a lot of people who sold their souls to Chris would be in jail.”

“Why not set him up with Mickey? It’s Mickey’s case.” 

“Yakov would blow a gasket if he finds out Mickey is not giving our two cases their top priority and went off to Spain to chase a potential lead,” Yuuri points out, shoving down the traitorous voice in the back of his head that says something like _But you could have helped Mickey meet Victor._ “I’m only looking into Nikiforov because of what I saw in a dream. Yakov is going to have a heart attack if he finds out I’m pursuing a lead that only has a flimsy connection to one of the cases.” 

Leo stops fiddling with the game controller. “All of what you said is correct. But it’s your funeral if you end up in hot water without any backup.” 

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “I've arrested and apprehended a lot of dangerous suspects. I can handle another one,” he slowly says. “But I appreciate the offer. I’ll still make sure to text you and Phichit the addresses of any secondary locations I go to in case I never show up at work on Monday.” Yuuri snaps his fingers, watching the Wi-Fi switch the lights on. “You do not have my blessing to avenge me, if I disappear forever.” 

Leo looks disappointed. Phichit would be even more disappointed.

Smiling slightly, Yuuri tries, "But you can have my stereo and sound speaker system. Phichit has dibs on my fridge and kitchen knife set." 

The hunter smiles at that.

* * *

"Nope, nope! Go away! Cease be!" Phichit shoos the hunters away from their laptop. "We are at a party. Not a work party, a real party! Unless it's a breakthrough we must all know, we will be watching me open the best and worst gifts." 

The hunters quickly back away. They both stammer out a reason Yuuri couldn't hear. 

Phichit drowns them out. "Na, na, na. Can't hear you!" 

It takes a few more minutes to gather everyone else up. Mila and Sara were the hardest of the herd. They were too busy discussing something about the artistry of some competitive sport. Mickey was relieved to be freed from Georgi, who was crying his sorrows about his love he lost in the 40s and missed opportunities. The hunters had to be dragged from their computer. Again. 

Phichit eagerly rubs his hands together. "I appreciate your gifts to help me warm my new home." He pauses. "It's great having you all here today. I move from countries to countries every once in a while. Usually because work says I'm needed here or there. It gets lonely at times, so having you all here is a relief from the daily grind." 

Sara and Mila coos, clapping. 

Phichit snaps back from the speech. He grabs the gift that is shaped like a dick. "So Mila! Another flower vase? I still have the last three you gave me." 

Mila laughs, waving. "Open it!" 

Phichit rips apart the packaging by hand. He doesn't care about the mess of packing peanuts all over his floor. He holds a dark green glass vase with three hamsters painted on its side. The hamsters are unique, each one different from one another. One is Arthur, holding a flower in his paw. "Oh, wow! This is already one of the best. Arthur, what do you think?" 

From the bars of the cage, Arthur squeaks and dutifully holds up eight fingers. 

Phichit nods. "A solid score of ten. Very nice! Handcrafted?" 

Raising a glass of blood to the witch, Mila shrugs. "I used to blow glass before I learned ceramics." 

Phichit furrows his eyebrows. His finger traces the words inscribed at the base of the vase. "Wait, what does this mean?" 

The hunters look incredulous at Phichit. Leo coughs and says, "Don't you know French?" 

Phichit gives the hunter a look. "Through the translation spell, I can understand other foreign languages. I can't read it unless I have an object to channel my magic to translate it. Like a pair of sunglasses, binoculars, or a seeing stone." 

"Wait." The other hunter raises his hand. "Does this mean you actually don't know how to speak French?" 

"Yeah," Phichit answers. 

"Oh. How about Spanish?" 

"No." 

Leo blinks in surprise. He's probably heard Phichit speak in a lot of languages. "Then what language do you actually know?" 

"Thai and English." 

The hunters stare at him. 

"The best fanfics are written in English. You know many _The King and the Skater_ are written in Thai? So little. A huge bulk is in English. So I learned." 

Leo turns to Yuuri, who is slowly sipping wine on the couch between Mickey and Georgi. "So, Yuuri. How many languages do you actually know?" 

Before Yuuri can answer, Phichit cuts in, "Don't ask him that. Languages come so easily to him. He like picked up Chinese in five weeks. Including writing and reading." 

"Mandarin, English, Japanese, Korean, and Dutch." 

"Okay, I can understand Korean and Mandarin, but what's up with the Dutch?" Mila asks. 

"It just came to me. It didn't take me too long to understand it. Read, speak, and write." 

"That's pretty cool." 

Phichit moves onto his next present. It rattles loudly enough to draw everyone's attention back to the original subject. He checks the tag. "This one is from Sara. I remember that five years ago, you gave me a small collection of silverware. I still use it. Oliver loves them." 

Sara laughs, her hands stifling her giggles. 

Phichit opens up her gift. "Oh, wow! Bath bombs! I'm glad you didn't get me any glitter ones. Last time I got them, they stuck so hard to Oliver's fur that he was sparkly for months like that awful vampire from those films. Arthur, what score?" 

From the cage, Arthur squeaks and holds up six fingers. 

"Oh, okay! A six! Mila is in the lead." Phichit grabs his next gift, shaking the container. "I believe this is from Georgi, who has said to me yesterday, he will be attempting to win the worst present." Phichit reveals the gift to be a large plastic food container with a framed photo of Georgi inside of it. "Pft, Georgi. You only did halfway bad. Not all the way bad. Tupperware is always useful. Arthur?" 

Arthur holds out four fingers. He squeaks. 

Before Phichit can translate the score, the hunters' laptop frantically pings. They both jump up from the floor. 

"Sorry, Phichit, we gotta check," apologizes Leo, rushing to the corner. He unlocks the laptop and announces, "Okay, new development in the Soul-eater case. The software found thirty-eight crime scenes, unsolved, that are perfect matches to our current one. All within the last ten years. There are over three hundred more that are suspicious with a lot of identical signatures." 

"Three hundred?" Sara whispers, horrified. 

"These are only the cases found in Germany, France, Poland, Netherlands, Czech Republic, Austria, Switzerland, and Denmark. I haven't expanded the search to the entire European continent, which I'm sure there is. Leo is setting up a timeline right now, and it looks like there may be years missing in between a few cases. We know there are cases, but they're just not in this region in Europe." Guang Hong lurks behind Leo's shoulder, staring at the laptop screen. 

"But if we have a timeline, we can cross reference them against credit card statements and see who pops up. If they're using the magical borders or even regular borders, we can check passports," reasons Yuuri. "And someone could go back to those cases and see if there is video that may provide us a visual of our perpetrator."


	3. Mara II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But For Now by Jamie Cullum

The night before Friday, Yuuri does not dream of the alpha. He dreams of Vicchan in his toy poodle form wandering on sand. The dog dashes in and out of the waves at Hasetsu. Mari suddenly appears out of nowhere, calling out to the poodle. 

"Come here, boy!" 

Vicchan sniffs curiously at the dried seaweed before bounding after the witch. 

The witch holds some empty reusable bags for the local market. Yuuri silently follows her as she buys noodles, rice, and other supplies from the supermarkets. Vicchan, unleashed, obediently trails after her, occasionally smelling odd black spots on the floor. Yuuri smiles at the toy poodle. 

He never changes. 

Mari continues shopping. They're about to cross the street when it happens. 

A car breaking the red light suddenly turns left, cutting between the pair. 

Vicchan, already on the street, snarls at the car. He growls at the braking tires, not even moving to dodge the oncoming, screeching car. 

Mari jumps back onto the sidewalk, screaming. "Vicchan, no!" 

The car slams into Vicchan. 

The dog does not even budge as the bumper collides into his head. His teeth bare themselves at the car, continuously growling. His fur darkens, and he looks terrifyingly bigger. The car’s momentum redirects, and the car is forced back into the intersection, away from Vicchan. There’s a hideous dent in the car now. 

Vicchan is untouched, still looking like a toy poodle as his fur lightens into his usual shade of brown. He spends two seconds growling at the car and then starts to whimper. Loudly. 

The driver comes out, speaking in rapid Japanese at Mari. “I’m so sorry! Is your dog okay? I’ll pay. I’m so sorry about this.” 

Vicchan lays his head on the street, whimpering even louder. 

Mari glares at the driver. “Watch where you’re going! You’ve already helped enough! Look at my poor dog!” Dropping all her shopping bags, she picks up Vicchan from the road and coos, “It’s alright, boy. We’ll get you to the vet soon.” Her shopping bags, levitating themselves, follow her closely. 

Once they’re close to Yutopia, she puts Vicchan back down. The toy poodle stares innocently at her, cocking his head. He yips a few times, blinking. 

“Yes, I’m glad you’re fine, Vicchan. But you got to be more careful,” says Mari, scolding the dog. “If the hunters know you’re here, they will try to kill you.” 

Vicchan barks, sticking his tongue out insolently. He walks to the nearest shadow, which is the fire hydrant, and melds into darkness. Yuuri thinks he’s probably gone back to the hot springs to hide in Yuuri’s old room. Maybe chew up a few of Yuuri's old shoes. 

Mari reaches into her pocket and dials a phone number. She patiently waits while it rings. 

And rings.

And rings. 

And rings. 

Yuuri frowns. It sounds like something is ringing in the real world. When he snaps out of his dreamscape, he realizes that his phone is _literally_ ringing. "Hello," he chokes out, sitting up. 

"Yuuri, it's Mari," says the witch. She doesn't wait for Yuuri to respond. "Vicchan got hit by a car." 

Yuuri rubs his eyes. "I know, I saw it in my dream." 

"Good thing they weren't suspicious about the dent in their car. But they might ask why they have a dent after hitting Vicchan." 

Yuuri switches on the light. "He should have ran back to the sidewalk instead of letting the car hit him." 

"He told me he didn't see the car until it was too late. He didn't want to shadow walk in front of the car." A long pause. "I saw you in my dreams last night." 

"Was it bad?" 

She hums. "It was the tsunami dream again." 

"I'm sorry," he says. "Try drinking some tea tonight. The tea I sent you last year. Maybe it'll help the nightmare go away." 

"Yeah, maybe. Take care of yourself, little brother. Don't forget to eat, okay?" 

"I won't. Bye." 

"Bye." She hangs up. 

Yuuri frowns at the window, staring at the sleepy city of Madrid. The tsunami dream. It's a recurring dream for Mari. The first time she saw it was when she was eight. She cried about it in the morning, so frightened of the beach for an entire week. She was so certain that the dream was prophetic— 

Except it didn't come true. 

Years passed with no major tsunami affecting Hasetsu in sight. There have been a few here and there after the earthquakes in the north, but nothing has reached the height of devastation and lives lost in her dream. 

Here’s what happened in her dream. It started out as a normal day. She was caring for the hot springs. Mari, in her dream, was very young. Yuuri was far younger, only a toddler with a chubby smile. 

Then the earthquake came. Buildings fell, and their parents were lucky enough to survive until the tsunami came without a warning. They climbed the highest peak in Hasetsu to outrace the rising tides, but they were swept away by dark, dangerous waves. Mari barely survived the waves by latching onto a tree, holding baby Yuuri in her arms until she's so weak and cold and tired from holding on so long and a dark figure, coming up from underwater, reached for her— 

And that's when the dream always ends. 

* * *

Work brings no major breakthroughs. 

For the first time in a long time, Yuuri could not wait for 5pm to roll around. Victor Nikiforov has left him no further text messages after he texted back, confirming date and time. With Mickey and Phichit's help, he painstakingly puts together a timeline while the hunters send a message in the group chat about the victims in France and their last known locations. Yakov has other agents in other offices notifying families of the victim's deaths and Mila and Georgi filling in more paperwork to seize all evidence on the cold cases. 

"Based on what we learned from the Book of Mara and the degree of consumption, one life could sustain the witch for four or five days. It's super inefficient, if we compare them to vampires." 

Yuuri agrees. Mathematically, it's sound reasoning. He could take their resident vampire as an example. Seung-gil only needs one blood bag with 320 mL of blood per day, and he gets by with bimonthly shipments. Georgi and Mila need more. Mila, mostly because she needs to sober up after mixing blood and vodka together. "Witches aren't made to be immortal. I'm sure he's using a lot of energy to fuel his magic, not just his youth and life." 

An average woman has nine pints of blood while men have twelve. A vampire only needs to fully drain a woman every thirteen days or fully drain a man every seventeen days to stay alive. Historical vampires prefer female victims, despite men being more efficient. They apparently taste sweeter. Seung-gil, three years ago after a night of drinking spiked blood with Mila and Georgi, claimed only AB negative blood tasted the sweetest. It's also the most expensive blood type. Or so Yuuri has heard. 

"So there are some scattering of cold cases in Germany this month. Three so far. Same M.O., same draining we've seen in our case. Sigil is sometimes hidden or badly decayed by the elements. Two months ago, our perpetrator was in Switzerland for about two weeks. Hence, three cases in Switzerland. Prior to Switzerland, Luxembourg for one week. One case there. He's been hopping around Europe. With the permeable borders between the European countries, we'll have better luck if he used the magical borders. Less so, if he used the common borders," Phichit concludes.

"If he's smart, he would have used the common borders. Or an unguarded border and walked across." 

"Common borders have surveillance footage," Phichit points out. "Let's just pass this onto Mickey." 

"Yeah, he can run a pattern search on the facials," Yuuri agrees. 

Phichit fumbles through some reports. "So I heard from Leo that your unofficial suspect has agreed to a dinner date with you." 

"It's not a date." 

"Then why are your ears red?" 

Yuuri does not touch his ears. It could be a trap set up by Phichit. He'll laugh if Yuuri reacts. "It's a conversation with a suspect." 

"Hmm. But you didn't tell us right away." 

"Cause it's unofficial," pointedly reminds Yuuri. "There is nothing sinister in my intentions. Except when it comes to Victor. I suppose pretending to be someone else to entrap and interrogate someone is sinister." 

Phichit laughs. "Alright, but we better be on speed dial. Right under the local police number." 

Yuuri promises that. He goes as far to show Phichit his speed dial. Then he asks, "Any developments on the Apocalypse case?" 

They both try not to laugh at the name. Yakov sent a strongly-worded email earlier this morning to all members of the team to not call their case the "Apocalypse case" because upper management will not appreciate the humor and will be alarmed by the reports labeled as such. 

Naturally, it is now called the Apocalypse case. Behind Yakov's and only Yakov's back. Mila was the one who started it, Georgi was dramatically using it, and Phichit was the one who popularized it. 

Phichit answers, "Well, nothing suspicious pulled off of the surveillance cameras. Mila went over them all a dozen times herself. Couldn't find anything who looked out of place or anyone whose appearance is more than a coincidence." 

Yuuri hums. "I really hate this case." 

"Well, I hope we'll be wrapped up with both of them by the end of the month." 

Yuuri doubts they will be. Maybe one. But not both. 

* * *

Yuuri went to the restaurant yesterday to check out the attire. What Victor texted was indeed correct. Casual wear. He decides on a light blue button up with black slacks. He takes his coat with him, wrapping it around his shoulders. He pauses at Phichit's cologne and decides not to use it. It's a dinner where Yuuri is about to surprise an unofficial suspect, not a dinner date meet cute. 

He arrives thirty minutes early. To the hostess, he says, "Victor Nikiforov's party." 

"Of course. Right this way, sir." With a gentle sway of her dress, she leads him to the table just in front of the stage. It's the best table in the house. "Here's the menu, sir. Enjoy." She places two on the table with an easy smile. 

While sitting, Yuuri scopes out the environment. There's not a lot of people yet. Most of them will arrive when the performance is about to begin. Three visible exits. One is through the kitchen, one is by the restroom, and the last is the front door. He leaves the menu on the table and takes his coat to the restroom 

While standing by the men's room, he pretends to be texting on the phone while watching the table. His plan is to quietly observe Victor Nikiforov when he arrives and then make his approach. 

He quickly moves when a lady enters the restroom. He shoves his phone up into his sleeve. Striding to the exit, he kicks aside the little rug and pulls a small bottle of black spray paint from his coat. He pushes down the nozzle as he draws a devil's trap onto the floor. The restaurant is going to hate him forever for this. Placing the spray can back into his coat, he kicks the rug back into place. Yuuri quickly moves back into his original position. 

The lady comes out, drying her hands with a towelette, unaware of anything unusual. 

Yuuri returns to his phone, pretending to be texting once again. He's not sure how he can draw more traps on the other exit. Glancing behind at the staff entering through the exit and thinking quickly, he has less than fifteen minutes to get it into place— 

"You know, most people don't hide from their dates in dark corners," says a low baritone voice. He speaks in flawless Japanese, the Tokyo dialect flowing smoothly. With a casual raise of his brow, Victor Nikiforov stands in front of Yuuri. He appears so suddenly that Yuuri wonders how he managed to sneak up on the witch without drawing his attention. 

Yuuri feels numb, a deer in the headlights. He couldn't even stammer out a word. Then the front door opens, allowing a breeze to run through indoors and to carry the _spectacular_ scent this man has. Notes of sinfully dark chocolate and the slight touch of iron. He almost smells like a vampire, but he possesses a decidedly alpha scent. His scent, instead of repelling like all vampires, _draw_ Yuuri in, dragging him under a spell. Yuuri tries not to look _too_ thirsty. 

"Come on. I'm paying for dinner." 

That's how Yuuri finds himself sitting at a table with Victor Nikiforov, whose tight dark purple collared shirt is doing _things_ to Yuuri. When he manages to speak, he asks, "How did you know?" 

"Dr. Chung is a white American man with blonde hair and green eyes. I have not heard of him getting a race lift," explains Victor, amusement in his voice. "Emilia, who controls the front desk at the ER, complimented your lovely features and said that you're an extremely handsome Asian man with glasses. It's not hard to figure out. You're the only Asian here. You stick out." 

"But Chung?" 

"He changed his name to his husband's. He was teased throughout his childhood and college years for having a horrible surname. He knew he didn't want to be professionally called Dr. Weiner." Victor sweeps his silver bangs aside, his intense light blue eyes never leaving Yuuri's face. 

Yuuri tries not to laugh. When he was living in New York, he distantly remembers a Congressman having the last name. A few laughs sneak out through his mouth anyway. 

Victor smiles, his long, sculpted fingers reaching for the menu. A surgeon’s hands. "Now do you have anything in particular you'd like to eat?" 

Yuuri manages out, "Surprise me." 

"Very well." Victor waves the waitress over. In Spanish, he tells her, "Your notepad and pen, please. My beautiful date is willing to be surprised. I would hate to spoil it." 

While Victor scribbles down a lot of things, the waitress smiles and looks between the two of them. She takes the notepad back with a pleasant smile and glances over his order. "Very good, sir. It'll be ready in twenty minutes." 

"Excellent." Then Victor switches back to Japanese. "So who are you and why did you want to contact me?" 

"Yuuri Katsuki," Yuuri answers. 

Victor raises an eyebrow, as if expecting something more. 

"Interpol." 

"Ah.” Victor Nikiforov does not appear to be alarmed. “May I see your badge?" 

Yuuri passes it to him, sliding it across the dining table. "Here." He pauses, for a second, trying to choose his words carefully. "Your Japanese is very good." 

Victor peers at the badge for a long moment, the first time all evening he did not look at Yuuri. He closes it and hands it back to the witch. "Yes, it had to be. I worked in Japan for over ten years."

"In the sixties." 

"Yes," Victor confirms, his voice pitched low. There's a hint of _and what are you going to do about it_ in his unfairly attractive voice. 

"You don't look a day over your mid-thirties."

"Mid-thirties?" A strangled whine comes out of his throat. For the first time, Victor doesn’t look so unfairly attractive. "Do I really look that old? That hideous?" 

Yuuri is sharply amused by the vanity this man displays. He doesn't look around thirty years old. Maybe late twenties. Yuuri leans in, his words barely louder than a whisper. "Most surgeons are in their forties." 

"You wound me. Mid-thirties," he repeats in disbelief, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath. 

"What were you doing in Africa? During the genocide?" Yuuri inquires, his eyes tracking every microexpression the alpha has to offer. 

"I serve in Doctors Without Borders." 

Yuuri frowns. He knows that organization. But he's not certain if they had helped during that particular genocide. He decides not to push that answer. He can Google it in his own time and away from Victor's prying eyes. He questions, "What are you?" 

"A trauma surgeon." 

"No, I meant," Yuuri says, trying to convey his question. "What exactly are you? You've been around for centuries. Napoleon's army physician. A body collector during the Bubonic Plague. You were in the trenches during World War One." 

"Yes." 

Yuuri looks at Victor's enigmatic smile. He does not say anything or offer any information. "How?" 

"You as a witch should know it's incredibly impolite to ask a supernatural creature what exactly they are," Victor says, his fingers tapping on the tablecloth. He pauses. "But for you? I'll only confirm or deny." 

Yuuri stares at him for a long moment. Then he says, "Vampire."

"Obviously not." He tsk playfully, "Try a better guess, Yuuri." 

Yuuri frowns. He can go through the long list of Asian mythology figures, but anything else is out of his realm of knowledge. He doesn't think Victor could possibly be from the Japanese myths anyway. He thinks of the Russian myths and tries, "A firebird?" 

"No, they tend to live in the colder regions." Victor says, his lips curving in a not-quite smile. "Then there are the unique creatures that are almost like firebirds. They have a curse or a blessing, depending on how you look at it. They live, they die, and they are reborn. The cycle renews. There is yet to be a name for them." 

Yuuri thinks there’s a hidden message buried somewhere in Victor’s cryptic words. He only squints at Victor instead of taking the bait. It sounds like something Victor wants Yuuri to ask more about it. So instead, he inquires, “Why be a surgeon? Why be a doctor if you’re immortal?” 

“Why not be a doctor if immortal?” 

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. 

Muttering a word of thanks at the waitress swinging by with a fancy wine bottle and glass, Victor elaborates, “I get bored easily. Centuries of doing the same things over and over again. It gets stale. A doctor is the latest thing I am in a very long line of careers.” 

"And those include. . ." Yuuri trails off. 

Drawing a sip from his wine glass, Victor merely smiles at him. Coaxing a glass of wine to Yuuri, he smoothly changes the subject. "What's it like working at Interpol? 

Yuuri holds it by the stem, and then decides to try a little sip. It's wonderfully sweet with surprising notes of flavor that blend together. Bubbles, grapes. There's a fruity, heady scent emerging from the glass. "This is incredible!" 

Victor, for the lack of a better word, _preens_ at Yuuri's comment. "The wine selection is very good here. Their riesling is the best in Madrid." He sips from his glass. "I'm very glad you approve." 

Yuuri does not understand why Victor is so _genuine._ Why would he care whether or not Yuuri approves of his selection on wine? Nevertheless, Yuuri glows in response and answers, "Interpol is busy. It keeps me busy. Different cases, interesting coworkers from all walks of life. I like helping people too. It feels like I'm making a difference in this world." He pauses, sinking into the silence as Victor smiles encouragingly at the witch. He continues, "I grew up in a small seaside town in Japan. There was a ghost haunting the woods. No one got hurt, but no one believed a girl when she said she saw a sad spirit wandering through the trees. That was my first case. Learning how to send a ghost to rest." 

"You're a great witch," Victor says, and Yuuri briefly wonders how Victor even _knew_ he's a witch. "I do admire your goals." 

"Are you a witch? Do you have magic?" Yuuri asks, his mind racing a thousand miles per hour. It seems incredibly unlikely, but how did he pinpoint Yuuri to be a witch? Yuuri himself, as a witch, sometimes could tell witches and sometimes couldn't. He usually can, because witches do not typically hide their powers behind a glamour. 

"No. I have no magic like yours." 

"But you have magic?" 

"Some," Victor admits. 

Yuuri is puzzled by that, at first. Then he remembers the lesser known but extant supernatural creatures. They, too, may or may not possess magic like witches. It's hard to remember them when academic researchers estimate ninety-seven percent of supernatural creatures are witches, werewolves, and vampires. Twenty, forty-eight, twenty-nine percent, respectfully. Of the three percent, twenty-three percent are nymphs, fauns, and miscellaneous nature spirits. Wendigos, fairies, and ogres are somewhere in the statistics. Researchers presumed they are overestimating some populations and undercounting other species, but they've concluded that unless there is a worldwide census that somehow finds every single supernatural creature, there is absolutely no way to truly capture the precise numbers. This statistics is also excluding demons and hellhounds. 

“A nature spirit?”

“I don’t need nature to tie myself to a form of existence.” 

"Wendigo?" 

"I don't need to consume anyone or anything to live." 

That is a good clue. But it's a clue that stumps Yuuri. Everything feeds on _something_ to live. It’s the natural cycle of the world. Humans have their granola bars and overpriced sugar coffees. Vampires, blood. Witches, organic foods. Werewolves occasionally hunt deer and elk, but they've been known to lurk at the raw meat section in the supermarkets. 

"How is that possible?" A thought crosses Yuuri's mind. "Unless. . . Are you a demon?" Demons sometimes use magic, and they never have to consume anything to survive. 

"No." 

"Huh." Yuuri furrows his eyebrows. It's possible Victor is a supernatural creature no one has ever heard of except for some long dead mythology author. 

"Do you have a dog?" Victor taps his chin. "You look like a dog person." 

Yuuri laughs, startled. "What is a dog person supposed to look like?" He hasn't lived with a dog in a long time. Vicchan is all the way back in Hasetsu, probably running in between the guests' legs at this very moment. 

"Not sure. It's just an aura around someone I feel." His answer does not satisfy Yuuri's question. 

"A toy poodle. I haven't seen him in two years." 

"What's his name?" 

"Vicchan." Yuuri has no clue what compels him to withdraw his phone from his coat. He has no idea why he's showing photos after photos of his beloved pet hellhound. He has no idea why he's enjoying every bit of Victor's reactions from his fawning to his enthusiastic commentary. 

"Two years? You should see him again soon. He would be very happy to see you." 

"Maybe when I use my vacation time." 

That's when the server swings around to deliver the appetizers. With the typical expressionless faces all servers have, he says, "Arroz cubano." 

"Gracias," Victor replies. 

Yuuri's stomach rumbles at the sight of the dish Victor ordered. It reminds him so much of home, of his mother's cooking. It's not a pork cutlet bowl. But there's a heaping of white rice with tomato sauce and a side of fried egg. There are some things he doesn't recognize on the plate. 

"Please, dig in and enjoy." 

A dance of unfamiliar and familiar flavors play on his tongue. The rice is perfectly made and complemented by the tomato sauce. It's strange to eat this without soy sauce and pork, but he likes it. It's a Spanish take on rice. With bananas. Yuuri nods, capturing the notes of tomato sauce. "It's good!" 

"It's nothing like katsudon." There's a strange tone of regret, as if Victor wishes he could provide and deliver a true Japanese pork cutlet bowl into Yuuri's arms. 

"We're in Madrid. Spain," Yuuri points out. "There are no good katsudon here. You like katsudon?" 

"I love it," corrects Victor, leaning in. There's a flash of pheromones, a mix of chocolate, so dark and sinfully delightful. It draws Yuuri in, tempting him of the unknown. "I had it a few times in Japan. There's nothing like it anywhere else in the world." 

Yuuri believes him. Victor has traveled the world. He has probably tasted more dishes than the hours Yuuri has put into overtime at Interpol. And Yuuri has put out _a lot_ of overtime and lost countless nights of sleep. HR has been telling him indirectly to stop putting in a lot of paid overtime. His contact in Human Resources keeps sending unsubtle emails about taking breaks, using vacation time, and avoiding burning out at work. 

"Damas y cabelleros," says a girl in a Spanish dress fit for dancing. "El espectáculo está por comenzar." She gives a little curtsy up on the stage. 

The entire restaurant, once possessing a buzz of conversation, quiets into nothing but silent anticipation. The lights dim while the stage light gets turned up in intensity. 

Behind the girl, the musicians get into position. One lady in black places her palms against a wood box. Another places his hand against his guitar and begins to play music. A sort of fast, traditional music that urges rapid movement. 

"It's a flamenco," whispers Victor, his eyes bright in the shadows. "They've been playing a new performance for the last two weeks. It's called _Eros." Eros,_ Victor says, the roll of his tongue pitched low and curiously teasing Yuuri's senses. 

Yuuri glances at the stage, at the remarkably beautiful girl, no, woman dancing alone. She draws the eyes of everyone, of all the musicians, of all the patrons in the restaurant. But her movements are singing for her partner alone. He's a playboy. He's going to conquer her like all the others out there, a predator circling his prey for the next meal. She knows this, her eyes never leaving his face and so knowing of his intentions. They dance together, coordinated, their limbs graceful. Yuuri is enraptured by the story they tell through dance as the playboy falls desperately, fatefully, ardently in love. But the prey has become the predator, and when the music sweeps into its final lines, she casts him aside for a new victim. 

Yuuri hardly notices when he stands up with everyone else and claps for the performers. The dances go through a few more performances, but none of them has captured his attention as perfectly as the first dance. After the show, he voices his thoughts.

"The first was the best." 

"I agree. It's the newest routine they've came up with. It's the one that demands their passion. They have to put their soul into the music," Victor says, pouring Yuuri and himself a glass half full with white wine. 

The waitress, aware of their conversation, quietly places their dessert and takes away their empty plates. It's of vanilla ice cream with a strawberry on top. It's delightful, every spoonful creamy and simple. 

Yuuri decides to broach the subject of Italy to Victor. "Why were you at the Plazza with Chris? When the murders happened?" He adds, before Victor can answer the question, "And don't deny it. We have footage of you walking with Chris at the crime scene." 

"He wanted to know if I knew where the antichrist is," Victor answers, his spoon playing with a swirl of ice cream. "I told him I did not know." 

"Did you know?" 

"I'm sure I can find the antichrist if I bother to try," casually admits the surgeon. "But I'm not going to hunt down a baby that disappeared from Florida sixteen years ago. It's the demons' problem." 

Yuuri frowns at that. "You said to Chris you don't care about the Apocalypse." 

"I don't." 

"Why?" Yuuri inquires, squinting at the alpha. "Don't you think it's a terrible shame to lose the world? All the people? All the lives? There will be nothing of civilization if the Apocalypse goes through." 

"I don't care. I actually would welcome the Apocalypse," Victor says, looking straight at the witch. His eyes are serious, genuine with every word. "And why fight against what will happen eventually? This event, the Apocalypse, has been written down in the Book of Revelations." 

"But why?" 

Victor leans back. "I've lived for practically an eternity. The way I see it is this: the Apocalypse is the end of a very long story." There's something in his azure eyes that speaks of great grief, a loaded weariness, and a heavy heart. History has weighed down on him. 

Yuuri's stomach drops. "Billions of lives will be lost." 

Victor nods, as if already knowing the fate of every single life. "So it will be." 

The witch feels like he's slamming into Victor's walls, unable to see through or to get through. Confused, he breathes, "But you're a doctor." 

"A doctor in a long line of careers that included a horse trainer, a landlord, an athlete, a police officer, and a court jester," Victor says in a matter-of-fact way. "The life I hold in the surgery room is on me. But the seven billion humans on earth are not. I have no responsibility for their lives. I told you before and I'll say it again. I've lived for an eternity, and most lives are so insignificant that they hardly last a blink of an eye. I'm done with living in this world, living through the same story over and over and over again. Most people don't know how the story ends. Well, I do. I know how beautiful it is in the moments and how bitter it is when it is when it always inevitably ends." 

Yuuri doesn't even know what to say. All he knows is that the end of the world _must_ be stopped. He knows this in his heart, the very truth he holds in the every fiber of his being, the core in his soul. 

His eyes blazing, Victor passionately continues, "In the afterlife, everything is the same. Hell, heaven, purgatory, whatever. An infinite realm where nothing ever dies and what is remains consistent. Earth is the only place where entropy is the grand finale." 

The witch wallows in silence, unable to think of anything to say. Nothing Victor says seems to make any sense. He thinks back to his interview with Chris and approaches the one subject Chris knows little of. 

"You loved someone." 

"Yes." The confession is so soft, tender, like a devout prayer, feathers on a wing. 

"Do you believe the Apocalypse will unite them with you?" 

"It will." There's steel and conviction in his words. "It has to." 

They don't talk much after that. Yuuri slowly eats every bite of his ice cream and the strawberry while Victor pays the check and leaves a sizable tip for the service. Victor looks tired in a way that a good night's worth of sleep may not be enough to cure. Though Yuuri sympathizes with Victor's plight, he knows one sad story of someone's heartache and sorrow is not enough for him to pretend the Apocalypse isn't happening. 

"I'll walk you home." 

"You don't have to," protests Yuuri, slipping on his coat. 

Victor smiles softly, leading Yuuri to the exit by the restrooms with a gentle hand on Yuuri's elbow. He walks over the devil's trap without an issue, and he pushes the door open. "Come on. It's a nice night for a walk." 

The soft way Victor looks at him, touches him, sends his breath catching. 

Barring the whole conversation about Victor's lost love and the end of the world, Yuuri does admit it looks incredibly a lot like a date night. A really good date. A good meal, a beautiful companion, and wonderful weather. They stroll through the streets of Madrid with Victor hitting every single pedestrian button for Yuuri. The breeze ruffles through Victor's hair, highlighting his austere features. 

Victor makes some idle talk. "I remember when Madrid had less lights and less cars." 

"When was that?" Yuuri can hardly imagine a night without someone honking their car or having their car alarm go off. 

"Maybe a few centuries ago." Victor exchanges a conspiring look with the witch. "A very long time ago." 

"Ninety-eight percent of vampires were created in the last hundred years," Yuuri remarks, quoting the statistics. 

"Perhaps only eighteen vampires are over a thousand." He pauses in his step, facing Yuuri. "But as I said before, I'm not a vampire." 

“I know.” 

When they stop, Yuuri barely realizes when they’re standing right in front of the bright entrance of his apartment building. His heart skips a beat when he notices Victor standing so close to him. He’s taller. He’s a few inches taller than Yuuri, and his pheromones are rising in response to Yuuri’s proximity. He’s holding out a hand to him. 

A handshake, Yuuri supposes. It seems like a disappointing way to end a night. He doesn’t have enough time to analyze _why_ it’s so disappointing. Yuuri’s about to shake Victor’s hand, when the alpha suddenly flips Yuuri’s hand so the witch’s palm is facing upwards. 

Before Yuuri can even blink, Victor has bent and raised Yuuri’s hand far enough to inhale the witch’s pheromones directly from the scent gland residing on his wrist. Like a clever jewel thief sneaking into a vault under the cover of darkness, the alpha bestows a kiss right on the sensitive edge of the scent gland. 

_Oh._

It’s as if a bolt of lightning struck the witch’s spine. Yuuri’s blushing harder than ever before in his entire life. Victor has thoroughly captured every bit of Yuuri’s senses and nerves, the heat rushing through his bloodstream as Victor’s scent rises around them. There’s a moment here that when Yuuri looks right into Victor’s blue eyes, he sees a possibility. He sees himself inviting Victor up to his apartment. He sees Victor accepting without even hesitating or thinking for a moment. He knows that Victor _wants_ Yuuri in every way he’s able to give him. He knows Victor wants to lay him out in his nest and to unravel him down to his core until he’s just a shattered puzzle of nerves only Victor knows the answer to. He knows Victor maybe even wants to bite, to _claim—_

Victor wants to kiss every inch of Yuuri’s skin. Victor wants to strip Yuuri bare only for himself. Victor wants to acquaint himself with Yuuri, tie himself so desperately that Yuuri would never dare to dream of leaving. 

It leaves Yuuri breathless at these thoughts when Victor inevitably pulls away. 

“Good night, solnyshko.” 

Yuuri’s still feeling the press of Victor’s lips against his wrist even as he stands in his apartment, looking down at the quiet street from the window above. There’s no sign of Victor, no hint of anyone at all. It takes an embarrassing long time for Yuuri to realize he’s never told Victor where he lives. 

In fact, he’s been _guiding_ Yuuri home. 

When his phone pings, he’s almost disappointed it’s because of Victor. He has already decided to keep this information to himself, the fact that Victor seems to know where Yuuri lives. He pushes his glasses up, and he’s surprised to find it’s a text from Leo. Not in the group message. 

It has to be about Victor. 

_I have unofficially dug up more info. He has worked at the hospital in Madrid for six years. Prior to that, he worked for the Metropolitan Hospital Center in New York City from 2001 to 2013. I also found him employed at Henry Ford Hospital located in Detroit, Michigan from 1991 to 2001. Haven't figured out what he was doing between Saga and Detroit._

Yuuri's heart nearly stops. 

Saga Prefecture, Kyushu, Japan. 

Then Detroit, Michigan, US. 

Then New York City, New York, US. 

Then Madrid, Spain. 

Yuuri quickly begins a new text message draft with unsteady fingers. _Look for him in Seoul, South Korea between Japan and Michigan._

He watches the message get sent and then left on read. 

Leo texts back not even two minutes later. _Yuuri, do you know something I don't know? Cause you nailed his location. Korea University Medical Center, 1981 to 1990._

Yuuri sinks onto the bed. 

It's almost as if Victor, or maybe Yuuri, is following the other. He has no idea how that's possible.

* * *

He creates a timeline. 

**Saga Prefecture, Kyushu, Japan: Victor (1961-1980); Yuuri (b. 1968-1989)**

**Seoul, South Korea: Victor (1981-1990); Yuuri (1989-1992)**

**Detroit, Michigan: Victor (1991-2001); Yuuri (1992-2000)**

**New York City, New York: Victor (2001-2013); Yuuri (2000-2012)**

**Madrid, Spain: Victor (2013-present); Yuuri (2012-present)**

He's puzzled. Sometimes Victor moved before him, but sometimes Yuuri moved before Victor. He doesn't understand why they've been circling each other as if they're inevitably linked. Yuuri wants to say he may have a true stalker situation, but at the same time, it appears Yuuri is following Victor. For example, Victor has been living in Seoul for many years before Yuuri worked at the Korea University for Interpol's research department on Asian mythology. In only two instances does it appear that Victor is following Yuuri. 

In the other three, Victor was there first. 

He's still thinking about it even as he sinks into his dreamscape. He must have been thinking about Victor so hard that his subconscious summoned a dream version who's naked on the bed. His silver bangs cover his eyes, and he murmurs, "So cruel. All you're doing is watching." 

Sitting casually in a chair, Yuuri is grateful he has all his clothes on. He's also hiding a raging hard-on underneath his neatly folded palms. It's clear Victor knows how much this is affecting Yuuri. 

"Yuuri, why don't you help?" purrs Victor, pouting as he slathers something shiny on his fingers. His back muscles ripples as he reaches behind to— 

Yuuri has never seen anything so arousing. His boner has never felt so hard. His eyes, rapt by Victor's movements, watch as he slicks up his hole, presenting himself to the witch. Confidence rises, and he revels in the conviction he finds. He smirks, "Why should I? It's clear you don't need any help."

"Yuuri." His name is like a prayer, the sweetest of words on his lips. He's beautiful when he begs. 

Yuuri watches as Victor stretches out his hole. One finger slips in. Then another. Then another when Victor's mouth is parted open in a silent, suppressed moan. 

"Vitenka," the witch scolds, "don't deny yourself. Let me hear you sing for me." 

He's shaking and whining by the time the fourth finger easily sinks into his hole. His other hand pulls away at his pale butt cheek, cleanly exposing his hole for Yuuri to peruse. Victor, wiggling his hip enticingly, murmurs, "Yuuri, don't make me wait any longer." 

How can he deny his love when he makes a request so sweet? 

Yuuri stands up. The witch strips off his yukata, reaching around Victor for the jar of oil. Of clove oil. Yuuri is nearly taken aback by its scent. Nonetheless, he slathers his fingers with the lubricant and begins to slick his cock. "You're so patient for me, Vitenka," Yuuri praises, his words purring. 

"I'll wait for you," Victor promises. "Longer than you'll know." 

Yuuri nearly shouts at the tight heat surrounding him. He drapes over the alpha, digging his fingernails into his shoulders as he slowly moves, instincts driving him closer and closer to his release. 

"Yuuri," Victor pants, uncaring of the angry red scratch marks Yuuri is leaving behind. His hands grip the bed sheets. "Harder!" 

Yuuri's thrusts become more erratic as the pressure strumming in him begins to pool, intensifying. He reaches down with one hand to grasp Victor's hardness, feeling it leak onto his fingertips. 

When they come, they roll together onto their sides. Yuuri brings his hand to his mouth. Staring right into Victor's starstuck eyes, he slowly licks the alpha's pearly white seed off each finger. 

"Stars," Victor breathes. "What have I done to deserve you?"

* * *

“So what unofficially happened?” asks Leo, once they’ve gathered everyone who’s involved with the unofficial search for Victor Nikiforov. They’re all hiding in the janitor closet right next to Seung-gil’s lab and Seung-gil’s rumored bedroom. 

Yuuri glances around the tiny room. They could barely fit everyone in here. Phichit’s shoved against the wall, Arthur has plenty of space to run around the other witch’s shoulders. Guang Hong squats above a yellow bucket, his face straining with effort as he does an unorthodox wall sit. Leo has the most comfortable spot of all, and he easily leans against the closed door. Yuuri is shoved against unamused Mickey and a shelf full of chemicals that, if mixed together, could create weapons of mass destruction. 

“Went out to dinner. He confirms most of whatever Chris said. He believes the Apocalypse is indeed happening and he has no intentions of stopping it from happening,” answers Yuuri, trying to adjust his coat without breaking anything. “I think he thought he was trying to hit on me. Maybe he was trying.”

“What do you mean he was trying?” pipes up Guang Hong from his corner. 

"It was just weird." 

Phichit hums. "What else you got?" 

“His locations. The past places he worked at.” Yuuri points out, trying to not inhale the sharp scent of werewolf and unwashed wet dog smell that Mickey is now emitting. “He starts off in Saga then goes to Seoul. Then he’s at Detroit and then New York City and finally Madrid. Doesn’t it sound familiar?”

Phichit, who has known Yuuri the longest and been to every single house-warming party Yuuri was forced to throw, realizes, “Those are all the places Yuuri lived. Maybe he’s following Yuuri. I don’t think it’s a coincidence at all.”

"Except for New York and Madrid, he was there before I was. Unless he's got some ability to foresee the future, I don't know how he. . ." Yuuri's voice trails off. 

“I don’t think he’s going to kill you, but he wants something from you,” insists Mickey, his eyes fixed on the shelves of cleaning solutions. “There were plenty of opportunities to kill you, Yuuri. Do you still have his contact information?” 

“Yeah.”

Looking away from Yuuri, Mickey now stares at the floor. “Maybe you should contact him again. But don’t be too obvious. Be subtle when you ask for information.” 

“I don’t know what he is.”

“Huh?” Leo blinks at that, tilting his head like a confused puppy. “What do you mean by that?” 

“I tested if he was a demon. He walked over the devil’s trap just fine,” Yuuri says. “I asked him if he was a firebird, and he said no and said some other stuff I didn’t really understand.”

“Wait, he’s letting you ask what he is?” Phichit gasps. “I’m surprised he’s letting you ask him!” He pats down his pockets and then grabs his phone. “I got a list of supernatural creatures I thought he might be. Actually, I’ll text the list to you. You could just read it to him and let him answer. I got faires, banshees, ghosts—”

“I don’t think he could be a ghost,” Yuuri cuts in, smiling nevertheless. 

"Whatever he is, I got friends setting up a house in the Spanish countryside for an unofficial interrogation," Leo says. "Filled with every hunting weapon and ward you can think of. Plus, if my contacts are good, I'll get a few explosives. I'll text Yuuri the address when it's ready." 

Everyone stares at him. 

"That can't be legal," Phichit finally says. 

Reddening, Leo gestures. "He can be anything. He's been around for who knows how long. You know what my grandpa used to say when he taught me how to hunt? 'Fear the old man in a profession where men die young.' This guy is the _oldest_ thing we've ever seen. There is no such thing as being unprepared when it comes to someone like this." 

The door suddenly opens, and Leo barely catches himself from a fall. Everyone's face immediately pales at Yakov, who is still holding the door wide open. 

"What are you all doing in here?" He gruffly asks. 

Phichit is the first to come up with a decent lie. Blinking as innocently as possible at their boss, he questions, "How come I make more than Yuuri? My salary per year is a few thousand more."

"COLA, due to you living in Paris before you moved to Lyon," answers Yakov, unamused. "There will be a reduction in COLA soon for you, Chulanont. The rest of you better go to the conference room on the Soul-eater case before I start cutting salaries." 

They follow Yakov to the conference room in a line like naughty children on their way to detention. 

"This is a new development in the Soul-eater case," Mila announces. “We’ve created a thorough timeline of the whereabouts of the witch. Plus or minus a few days, because we’re not that accurate. The software is looking for patterns in names of passports crossing the international borders, but it’s not having any luck so far.” 

“Facial?” asks Leo. “What about that?”

“Still running. It’s taking much longer, because the department upstairs is also running their program,” explains the vampire. 

Everyone, except Yakov who is too good for it, collectively groans. 

The department upstairs refers to the drug enforcement department. They've been around for decades and usually get a huge bundle of funding and resources. They're probably running down the faces of some little known drug dealers. But they're creating quite a backlog and a slowdown in the facial recognition software. 

"His facials can't be much different from border to border," Yuuri concludes. "Barring plastic surgery, he might have a different hairstyle or accessories or even a different ethnicity, but he's obviously unable to use magic to disguise himself." 

"Why?" Guang Hong inquires. "Wouldn't it be easier? There are no witches manning the regular international borders. Only the magical ones." 

"He wouldn't be able to get past airport security without triggering the Artemis Ward," Phichit answers. "It was the Americans in 2001 who wanted to make sure terrorists couldn't use magic to disguise themselves or a weapon. The first eight generations weren't that good. But the ninth, which came out in 2010, is considered the gold standard on magic detection wards. They kept on improving it after that." 

"It was incredibly helpful when it came to the Jackson kidnapping case." At everyone's confused look, Yuuri adds, "That's when a neighbor kidnapped four-year-old Amy Jackson and sought to hide them both in South America. He went to a witch for hexbags that'll hide both of their identities, but was caught when the hexbags were discovered at LAX." It's a case that made statewide news but not international. Yuuri was the one who had to hunt down the witch in question. 

"So if he had tried something within the last ten years, he should have been taken in by airport security and possibly arrested for traveling under a magical disguise," Mickey concludes. 

The witches nod. 

"We also have found the demon in question for the Apocalypse case." Mila smoothly sails over the death glare Yakov gives her. "According to a book called _Legemeton,_ which is also called _The Lesser Key of Solomon,_ our demon is a Great Duke of Hell. Astaroth is his name, and all the sigils in our case have his symbol." 

"Does that book say anything else about demons?" 

"A lot is said. But it's not the only source I've been looking through. According to one, there are seven princes of hell. The one on top is the devil, who represents the sin of pride. They all represent the seven deadly sins," informs Mila. "Different books say different things, but they do have three demon princes that are consistent. Lucifer, who is also known as Satan. Asmodeus, representing lust. Beelzebub, gluttony. I'm still in the process of obtaining the Book of Enoch, which may tell us more about the way our perpetrator thinks." 

The rest of the meeting goes slower. Yakov listens to every update, whether big or small. Yuuri has heard most of it already from their group chat, which Yakov is in but never actually seems to read. 

Yakov is about to ask for an update about Phichit's progress in translations of several grimoires when they're interrupted by Georgi. 

"I'm sorry," he says, glancing at particularly nobody. "I got a call from Siena, Italy. They're overwhelmed by the supernatural ritual they found in a church parking lot. Two nuns are dead." 

Yakov is quick to issue orders. "Katsuki, get the forensic equipment and take Ji as a companion." He points to Phichit. "You, get Sara." 

Mickey gives a warning stare at Phichit, but he does not say anything. 

"Yes, sir," Yuuri says, standing up and stowing his laptop away into his coat. He taps Guang Hong's shoulder. "We gotta go."

* * *

It's not an ancient church built in the 15th century or so. That was what Yuuri was expecting. They are at a relatively new but modest Catholic church with no tourists in sight. The police had already set up a decent barrier between the crime scene and the press. Yuuri slips on protective gloves while Guang Hong awkwardly takes pictures. 

"I don't know crime scene procedures that well. I'm convinced half of my pictures will turn out to be crap." The hunter snaps another photo.

"Guang Hong?" 

"Yes, Phichit?" 

"Take two pictures of everything. So one will be okay." 

"I don't think that is how it works." Still, Guang Hong shoots a second photo. 

Puzzled by the differences in this scene than the ones before, Yuuri stares at the symbol of Astaroth. Then he examines the lines of the sigil itself, feeling the magical traces left behind. "This was used for summoning. A successful summoning." 

"Huh?" Sara collects some fibers with her tweezers. "What do you mean by that?" 

"Phichit, look at it. The bowl is completely dry, but I bet there will be traces of blood and ingredients in it," Yuuri says, pointing at the said black ceramic bowl sitting innocently at the center of the sigil. "There was never a bowl left behind until now. Plus, we have two bodies. Not three. The one that sits on Astaroth's symbol has nobody." 

Phichit nods, pulling out his phone. He's probably texting the entire group. "I'll tell everyone that. But what do you think the perpetrator was trying to summon?" 

Yuuri stares at the sigil painted straight into the sidewalks of a parking lot, his mind only recalling the old Vietnamese witchcraft and its practices instead of anything useful. He's still squatting by the bodies even as Sara moves around, gathering evidence onto tiny baggies. 

He suddenly snaps his head up, feeling like a complete idiot. 

"Astaroth," Yuuri answers, lightning striking his head like a revelation. "He has summoned Astaroth."

"There's only two bodies!" Sara says, brushing for some fingerprints on the bowl. 

"The perpetrator," realizes Yuuri. He moves to stand right behind Astaroth's symbol. His gloved hands gestures at the ritual. "He was here. He conducted the ritual so Astaroth possessed him. The first one we saw, the one in England didn't work. He didn't have the right ingredients or did the correct things to reach the requirements to be Astaroth's vessel. He came here tonight, not at a fancy, historical church, but here, because he knew he could free Astaroth from Hell and bring him to our sphere of existence." 

Phichit reaches for his phone. "Maybe I can ask our friendly local demon if he knows anything else about the Apocalypse." 

"You have his phone number?" Guang Hong yelps. His camera suddenly moves, probably ruining the photo he just snapped. 

"He left me a card that said, 'Call me when you want some fun. xoxoxo, Chris.' Phone number is 666-666-666-6969." Phichit somehow manages to say every 6 without cracking his voice or stumbling over the numbers. 

Times like these are when Yuuri wishes academic witches had discovered a telepathy spell, so Yuuri can privately tell Phichit what a bad idea it is to call Chris for a fun time. Yuuri strips off his gloves and says, "If you have ever thought of calling him, just know actually calling him falls on a clean number eight on a one to ten scale of bad ideas." 

Phichit raises an eyebrow. "You gave seven point two when I tried asking out Seung-gil for lunch." 

"Chris is not the worst demon out there." Plus, Seung-gil doesn't eat lunch and Yuuri is certain he's mildly allergic to living people. 

"I give your unofficial handling of your unofficial case a nine point eight." 

"Yuuri has an unofficial case?" Sara asks, glancing between all of them. Her eyes widen at their guilty expressions. "And all of you but me knew?" 

"Well, it's unofficial, because Yakov would be mad if he knew we were investigating a private citizen in great details who has not been officially declared a person of interest." 

Sara looks incredulous at the three of them. "Does Mickey know?" 

The answer must have been evident in their faces. 

"I can't believe he did not tell me." She grumbles something underneath her breath. Probably cursing Mickey's name or something. She goes back to her forensic equipment and pulls out an ultraviolet flashlight. "Yep, there was blood in the bowl." 

Everyone glances over to look at the bowl. The flashlight highlights a blue zone that indicates the bowl was filled to the brim with blood. 

Sara switches the flashlight off. Looking at the bowl from several angles, she then holds it briefly as if weighing it mentally and inhales deeply from it. She announces, "I estimate it can hold a gallon of liquid. I see evidence of agglutination as well.”

“What’s that?” Guang Hong asks, lowering the camera. 

“When two different blood types mix that aren’t compatible with each other, they can literally clump. This is why someone who is blood type B positive can’t donate blood to someone A negative. The blood type AB positive is the universal recipient and can accept blood from every blood type,” Sara explains. 

“So there’s at least two people’s blood in there?”

“Yes,” answers Sara, nodding. “If there’s only two and taking the size of the bowl in account, I would say we have perhaps two more victims out there. At least one lost enough blood to die from exsanguination. Or maybe—” 

Everyone closely watches Sara pull up the sleeves of the nuns. She checks the palms, the wrists, the locations of major arteries. 

Pulling down one nun’s collar, Sara checks her neck. “Yeah, I don’t think it’s from them. I don’t see any sign they died from blood loss or have even given blood. I don’t smell any blood cuts. Maybe someone can call the local hospitals to see if they admitted anyone because of severe blood loss. 

It takes several calls to the local hospitals and several stresses about Interpol authority before they actually find an answer. Yuuri stares at his phone screen. "There's an urgent care right down the street that found a body dead from severe blood loss this morning on their doorstep. Receptionist says they were severely cut at the legs and must have stumbled for help. They don't know who it is, but they estimated the victim's age to be in their late twenties or early thirties." 

"Not a twenty-four hour urgent care?" 

"Nope," says Yuuri, checking the urgent care on Google. "Closes at nine last night, opens at six in the morning." 

"So this happened between nine and six," concludes Phichit. "The priest found this scene at seven." 

"I agree they probably died last night," confirms Sara, turning one nun's head slightly. "No sign of decomposition, but postmortem rigidity has set in. They died like this, in this very position. They probably didn't know they were dying like this. Blunt force trauma to the heads certainly requires medical attention." 

They died on their backs, laying down. Yuuri doubts it's that comfortable in the parking lot. But then again, they probably were not conscious. Yuuri can't tell if that's worse or better. 

"Someone get me my measuring tape, please." 

Guang Hong quickly volunteers. He holds the other end as they measure the diameter of the sigil. 

"Three point eight meters across. Identical measurement to the previous crime scenes." A pause. "This size allows the bodies to be mostly in the sigil." 

Except for the head and the torso, she does not say. 

A commotion among the press and rubberneckers draw Yuuri's eyes. They're speaking rapidly among themselves, and then some members of the press strangely pick up their cameras and run to the little park right next to the church. 

Switching on the translation spell, Yuuri says to the nearest local policeman, "What is going on there?" 

He shakes his head, evidently confused as well. He speaks into his radio. "Anthony Eleven, there's a disturbance at St. Peter Catholic Church." 

The radio comes in after a few moments. The Dispatcher replies, "We have a Code Ten." 

"That's a dead body," the officer explains to Yuuri. It seems other members of the police force have gotten the same message, and they're now rushing into the park. 

"Guang Hong, I need you!" Yuuri says, uncaring that he just shouted Italian at the hunter. Sara can translate. He quickly strips off his glove as he follows the line of people rushing to see the crime scene. 

It's not very far. It's the faint track of blood leading to the crime scene that helps them all find the fresh corpse leaking droplets of blood two meters above their heads. Her eyes are milky and blank, and the press is rudely taking pictures of her, uncaring of the fact she was once a living, breathing person. She's been tied up there by her neck to a tree, her legs slashed at the arteries to help drain her blood. 

There's rope for a second body. It's still looped, as if holding onto an invisible neck. 

"Get them away from here," Yuuri orders, pointing at the reporters. "And make sure they don't publish any photographs." 

"Yes, sir," confirms the officer, reaching for his radio to relay the message.

* * *

Seung-gil, grumpy as ever, is forced to withdraw from whatever corpse he was currently examining. The expressionless vampire seems even more grumpy when he realizes he has four bodies to examine and finish with an autopsy report written by the end of the day. Seung-gil, who is perhaps one of the most talented coroners working for Interpol, can do a body in two hours, assuming no further complications. 

Yuuri had the arduous task of ferrying four body bags across the magical international borders while Sara and her cases of forensic equipment hopped onto a plane to get back to France. Phichit and Guang Hong stayed behind to question the neighbors and potential witnesses. Yuuri admits it was fun to cut into the long line at customs with four body bags levitating behind him, citing an emergency with all of the paperwork lined up and Yakov Feltsman on speed dial. Typically, they wouldn’t transport bodies using the portals, but they are on a time crunch. 

“This one, you say she was being hung from the tree?” Seung-gil points to the said woman, his nose pinched. “Almost no blood in her. She was drained very well from her arteries.” He turns to the other woman who was found at the local urgent care. “This one has a lot of defensive wounds. I’m currently running the DNA I found under her nails through the system.” 

“Defensive wounds?” Yuuri repeats. 

“Mmm, I can smell the blood of her attacker,” serenely says the vampire, actually inhaling the victim’s pale fingers. He seems to actually sigh with disappointment. “They are B negative. She’s O negative. The other victim’s blood is AB positive.” 

After spending a long time in the presence of Seung-gil while he conducts his autospies, Yuuri no longer questions how Seung-gil can just sense some things about the victims. One time, he just knew their victim was a drug abuser who has been clean for the last ten or so years. The vampire is good enough to smell the faint traces of heroin. 

“How about the bowl?”

“I ran it through the mass spec.” The vampire quickly pulls up the report on the computer. “We have the typical chemicals found in blood. Then we have the unusual, which is not found in blood. From the report, it says we have calcium oxalate, gallotannins, safrole, rosmarinic acid, camphor, caffeic acid, ursolic acid, betulinic acid, carnosic acid—”

Yuuri blinks at the mumble of words the vampire seems to sprout out of nowhere. He has no idea what any of that means. He interrupts, "What does that all mean?" 

"It's composed of human blood, your common witchcraft ingredients including witch hazel and rosemary, lotus leaves, and sugar, and," he pauses, "a rat poison. The rat poison is the most unusual part of the mixture. A major active ingredient in the rat poison was gorgo acid. The company called Athene Pharmaceuticals, which made this, was declared bankrupt in the nineties, and the supernatural creatures they used for ingredients were killed. They had one gorgon, and they drew its blood to derive the acid. The problem with the rat poison was that it was banned in the eighties for the severe and lethal effects it had on people. Accidentally opening and touching an Athene rat trap was enough to kill someone. They settled millions in lawsuits." 

"There are no more rat traps, are there?" 

"Legally, no. But there might be some still out there," the vampire suggests. "If you can find out how that rat poison ended up in the mixture, maybe it'll help us find the suspects." 

"Maybe," Yuuri echoes.


	4. Mara III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel by Sarah McLachlan

_ Why are you stalking me?  _ That text message remains in drafts. After typing so many times and so many variations of his questions, Yuuri can't seem to find the right words to say to Victor. The perfect words, the ones that will elicit a response. He's sitting in his makeshift office instead of putting more hours into research or studying his notes on the Book of Mara. He could be calling people to expedite the shipping of the Book of Enoch or rereading Mila's notes on  _ The Lesser Key of Solomon.  _ Or maybe he could be hunting down the rat poison. 

_ How do you know me?  _

_ What are you?  _

_ Who are you?  _

_ How do you know where I will go before I do?  _

It’s the notification from the group chat that catches his eye. It’s from Mila. It might be a meme, or it might be a new development in one of their cases. 

It's a short text.  _ Book of Enoch has been received. I need translation help from someone. Magical help.  _

_ I'll be in your office.  _ Phichit has responded nearly instantaneously. 

"Katsuki," gruffly says Yakov, knocking on the doorway. He stands awkwardly there, not bothering to pull off his hat. "There has been a leak." 

Yuuri sets down his phone, folding his hands neatly in front of him like a model employee. "Leak for which case?" 

Yakov pulls out his phone, a smartphone he’s notoriously unfamiliar with. Squinting at his phone screen, Yakov shows the witch a YouTube video of some news channel. An Asian reporter with messy dyed brown hair stands in front of a familiar church located in Siena, Italy. 

In Japanese with English subtitles underneath his face, he says, nearly shouting into the microphone in defiance of the roaring wind, "Sources have confirmed there are four women, including two nuns, found dead of unnatural causes. Italian police are stumped by what appears to be a supernatural case with demonic intent. Interpol is reportedly at the helm of the investigation. There has been no comment given by Interpol to any reporters. Reporting live from Italy for Asahi News, I'm Hisashi Mor—" Yakov switches his phone off. 

"There are other stations and channels reporting the same thing. It has reached international news. Reporters are going to start digging and finding similarities with other cases." Yakov pauses, his face wrinkled in displeasure. "I need you to be ahead of the curve. Control what the narrative is in the press. Do not let them mention anything about the Apocalypse." 

Yuuri nods, familiar with this job as the press contact. Standing from his desk, he confirms, "Yes, sir. I'll see what I can do." He’ll have to get another work phone from the IT department, so the press can contact that phone number and harass no one else. 

He does not leave. 

Feeling awkward despite being in his own office, Yuuri raises an eyebrow. "Sir, do you need anything else?" 

"Are you still investigating Victor Nikiforov?"

Yuuri tries not to react in any way, and in that quick moment after, he realizes his lack of expression is a dead giveaway. 

Unsurprised, Yakov sighs. "What have you found?" His tone is of exasperation, not of anger. It’s as if Yakov knows everyone on his team will not listen to him at all. 

"Unofficially?" 

The man makes a  _ go-on  _ gesture.

The witch deliberates whether or not he should tell the full unofficial investigation or say merely enough to keep Yakov slightly in the loop. After a long, awkward moment, he answers, "He's in Madrid, Spain. Working as a surgeon in the Emergency Room." 

Yakov nods, swallowing the information. "And?" 

"I made contact. For the moment, he seems to be friendly and he has yet to be dangerous to anyone." 

Although, not stopping the Apocalypse does seem to be negligible and arguably dangerous. But it's true. Victor Nikiforov does not seem to want to hurt anyone in particular nor to actively kill people. And Yuuri believes that Victor Nikiforov is indeed telling the truth while also omitting some crucial details. He’s not sure why he’s omitting, but he’s determined to get to the bottom of this mystery nonetheless. 

The older man pulls off his wool hat. He has less hair than ever before, Yuuri notes. He glances away, staring at the piles of grimoires and notebooks on Yuuri’s temporary table. "I sometimes wonder if I have seen him before. Back when Lilia and I were still married and in love. He has an unusual but distinctive appearance. Hard to forget." 

Yuuri agrees. That silver hair is an uncommon feature. He's also unfairly attractive. 

"When I was on the battlefields," Yakov pauses, perhaps lost in the memories of the Soviet Union and its Ground Forces in the Cold War, "as I watched two great armies clash against one another, I think I saw him standing in an unharmed patch of trees. Most civilians have run by then but not him. He was watching the war." He sighs. "But it may have not been him but rather only my imagination. War is confusing. Chaotic." 

Yuuri nods politely. 

Yakov slips his hat back on. The strange moment of clarity, now lost. He gruffly orders, "Get back to work, Katsuki.”

“Yes, sir.” The witch watches his boss leave. 

Yuuri sits down once again, pondering for the longest time while staring off into space. He realizes he can’t directly ask Victor about why he appears to be stalking Yuuri in a text message. It’ll be too easy for Victor to ghost him forever. Victor can easily take off and run to another foreign country. That means Yuuri must ask in person, in a place where he can read every single microexpression the alpha has to offer. He finally comes up with a neutral text message.  _ When can I see you again?  _ There. Perfect. Nothing that shows Yuuri is up to something sinister, nothing that gives away a hint that Yuuri knows there’s something strange about Victor Nikiforov and his past of secrets. 

He responds in less than a minute.  _ ) !!! _

Then another confusing text.  _ ( _

Then another text.  _ I’m attending a medical conference on anesthesia and surgery for today and the next two days. I’m free on Thursday after 12pm. Would you like to pick the place and time?  _

Yuuri rereads Victor’s text. Then for a third time. 

For a guy who says he doesn’t care much about what he does for a living, he sure as hell takes being a surgeon seriously.

* * *

“Why did he choose this place? I kind of expected something more. . .” Yuuri’s voice trails off. He pauses in his step on the sidewalk, just right outside of the grand distinguished appearance of the Bibliothèque municipale de Lyon. 

“Sexy?” Phichit helpfully inputs. “Risque? Seedy? Trashy?” He pulls out his phone and says, “He reserved a room for group study, so we can talk quietly.” 

They easily find the small room sequestered in between other small private rooms. Its door is the only one shut, and judging by the other private rooms, the group study room offers a considerable amount of privacy. Just before Phichit reaches up to knock, Yuuri announces decisively, “This is a nine on the scale.”

Raising an eyebrow, Phichit shoots back. “I say seeing Victor Nikiforov without any backup at all is a solid ten on the scale.” 

Yuuri can't say anything about that. 

Phichit knocks. 

“Come in and close the door.”

Yuuri nearly believes they have the wrong room with the large pile of intellectual non-fiction paperbacks and hardcovers on the table. Hiding behind the incredible stacks of books is Chris, who is oddly wearing glasses and a baggy black turtleneck. He looks incredibly not like himself, if Yuuri chooses to ignore the distinctive hairstyle and the sultry voice. 

“It’s nice to see you without a glass in between us,” purrs Chris, his tones soft and succulent. He toys with the edge of his eyeglasses. “It’s also nice to see you, Yuuri.” 

“I’m surprised you picked a library as our meeting spot.”

The demon makes a small shrug. “Yuuri, most demons are uninterested in further educating themselves of this world. Most of us were once human, you see. It takes a soul a few hundred years in Hell to warp themselves into a demon. The human world has changed much in the meanwhile. The internet, the technology, the food, the lubricant. There’s so much to see and know. Hell remains the same after thousands of years, constantly unchanging.” 

This distantly reminds Yuuri of what Victor said. Of Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, never changing. Earth, changing constantly towards entropy. 

“Why did you want to meet with us?” Phichit asks, shoving his phone away into his pocket. “Your text made it sound as if it was urgent.” 

“I came to talk about the symbol of the sigil you were asking me about,” Chris explains. “It’s Astaroth.”

“We know,” the Thai witch says, pulling out a chair. He gestures one to Yuuri, who also sits. “We found a copy of  _ The Lesser Key of Solomon.”  _

Adjusting his glasses, Chris nods in approval. “That’s a good book. Not many copies survived the Nazis. Lilith has the only copy in Hell and guards it jealously. She has her minions summoning the old demons from their prisons.” 

Yuuri furrows his eyebrows. “Don’t you have the key?”

“No, they were locked away in a battle a long time ago,” Chris explains, leaning towards the witches with a whisper. “By celestial power, according to rumor. It’s easier to summon them on earth using a ritual than it is to break them out and avoid the  _ Guardians. _ It’s suicide if they tried a direct assault on the prison.” 

“What are the Guardians?” 

“Hellhounds, a few dragons. A Behemoth,” the demon answers. “Those are the inner layers of the prison, assuming if they can get past the Leviathan and the treacherous sea that surrounds the prison. The Leviathan is a great sea monster living underneath the black waters. He eats anything that gets close to the water." 

The witch has a hard time imagining that. He's picturing that prison from the Harry Potter movies. "But you wanted to meet up with Phichit, because?" Yuuri prompts. 

"Astaroth is a Grand Duke of Hell. Lilith will be trying to summon the Princes next. Of course, if Lucifer is released from his cage, then she doesn't need to bother dragging out the Princes when Lucifer can do it himself by using the direct approach," Chris ponders aloud, his hand scratching his chin. He adds, "He's an archangel, according to legends. His ‘legendary’ powers can make the Leviathan shrivel." 

"Do you have any useful information for us?" Yuuri inquires, trying to get straight to the point. Chris offers some interesting tidbits about Hell, but it’s not anything Interpol can use. "Knowing that this Lilith is trying to break more demons free is only telling us that there will be more summonings." 

“Yes,” confirms Chris. “Far more.” 

“Wait. Who is Lilith exactly?” Phichit interjects. 

"Before there was Adam and Eve, there was Adam and Lilith. She was his first wife until Lucifer corrupted her and remade her into the first demon. His first experience in making demons. That was before the fall of man, according to the stories. Lilith says she is that same Lilith." 

"Is she?" 

Chris shrugs. "You have people who don't believe the Apocalypse is happening, correct?" 

Yuuri agrees. Mila doesn't think so, and Yakov will have a heart attack while bald before he believes it. Seung-gil has no opinions. 

"Just like you have humans who don’t believe in religion, demons have those who don't believe the Apocalypse is coming. A decent portion believes she’s just an old demon who has been made before most of them. They believe that there is no such thing as an angel, and the monster she speaks with is only the Leviathan." Chris flips a book closed. It's the Bible in English. King James version. "No one dares to go close to the cage deep in the Ninth Circle of Hell. It is unsettling down there. Cold. Bitterly cold. Rotten." 

“But your point is?” Yuuri prompts again. 

Chris shoots him an annoyed glare. “Whether or not you believe, Astaroth is indeed one of the strongest demons in Hell. Lilith was the only one sitting at the top of the food chain. Now, we have the Grand Duke and perhaps a few more on their way in your world. I came, because I want to remind you of the best way to prevent the Apocalypse.”

“What is that way?” Phichit asks. 

“Find the antichrist,” the demon answers seriously. “Find him. Don’t kill him. He’ll probably be going to Hell, and they’ll only resurrect him. You have to hide him so well Lucifer can’t find him and possess him. Lucifer can’t get a vessel? There is no Apocalypse. He can’t even lift a finger to destroy this world as much as he would like to.” 

Yuuri blinks. “You said Lucifer is an archangel.”

“Yes.”

“Why would he need to possess someone? Like a demon?”

Chris shrugs. “I only know how it works. Lucifer might not even be an archangel, a former archangel, according to the rumors. But it’s all speculation. No one but Lilith has supposedly seen Lucifer since the Biblical times.” He pauses. "Let me tell you about the antichrist." 

The witches nod, listening. 

"Born male. Secondary, unknown. His mother was a television personality and died after giving birth to him in Florida sixteen years ago. His original fate was to be raised horribly by his somewhat distant father. You can imagine yourselves how horrible. His only true companion was a nanny who is possessed by a demon named Abbadon, who would work on warping the child's soul." 

A cold feeling sinks into Yuuri's stomach. This, regardless of whether or not the Apocalypse was real, has been done to a real child out there. 

"March 5, 2003. No one knows how he got lost. This was the hospital they used, and below that address is his birth name I found for you two." The demon slides a small pamphlet for a hospital across a few books. 

"Ivan Petrovich," Yuuri reads aloud. 

"American mother, Russian father who is in politics," Chris explains. "The father is part of the President's inner circle. The real Ivan Petrovich, however, is missing." 

"How did they even know it wasn't the real Ivan?" Phichit wonders. 

"He failed to bleed black." At the dual looks of surprise, the demon nods. "Yes, the antichrist bleeds black blood. Like tar. Lilith's minions are looking out for him now without a doubt. They have scoured the other children who were there at the same hospital and determined none of them were the antichrist." 

Yuuri determines the demons must have cut them and watched the color of blood they bleed. He hopes that is the most they've done to them. "Is there any other information you can tell us about the antichrist?" 

Chris ponders for a moment, lost in thought. He finally adds, "His mother. That was his father's mistress. He has no wife and no intentions of marrying or having children but has a sense of duty. Her birth name was Yulia Plisetsky. She changed it to Julie Plisetsky to become a television personality. She had no living relatives, since her father died eleven years ago.” He pauses. “The way the antichrist got lost, the one way that makes the most sense to me is that he was accidentally switched at birth. But demons are now believing it’s something else at work.” 

“Hmm,” Yuuri says. “But if the antichrist can’t be found, won’t it be safer that we don’t try to find him as well?” 

Chris raises an eyebrow. “But would you risk the antichrist merely being in the next country over with no protection from the demons? The only protection he has is anonymity?” At the look Yuuri exchanges with Phichit, he nods. “I thought so as well. You wouldn’t leave it to chance, if you had a choice.” 

No, they would not. 

Chris changes the subject, refocusing his attention on Phichit. Leering, he asks, "So are you currently seeing anyone?" 

The said witch giggles. 

Yuuri has to kick Phichit's ankle under the table at that. 

It's after they clear the library and get back to the office when Yuuri finally voices his opinions about the demon. To the other witch, he muses, "I don't trust him. He could be lying about the whole antichrist thing." 

Phichit hums, opening the door to his temporary office. He does a tiny fist bump with Oliver. "But we still have to look into it." 

"He could be telling us, so we can use our resources to find the antichrist only to have him kidnapped by demons," Yuuri reasons, plopping down in the guest chair. 

Phichit taps away at his computer. "I just did a search on Julie Plisetsky, formally known as Yulia Plisetsky. Dead sixteen years ago. Death listed as childbirth complications. Was news all over Florida, but it didn't get much traction. No mention of the father." 

"And the child?" 

"I found a birth certificate for the kid. Dual citizenship. Russian and American."

"We should do a follow up on the child," the witch suggests. "Even though he's supposedly not the antichrist, Chris implied he was abused by his father and the nanny." Yuuri shares a look with Phichit. "It's the least we can do." 

"Your phone," Phichit says, at the sound of Yuuri's phone pinging. "Who is it?" 

_ We have a house set up in Madrid that is perfect for unofficial interrogation. I have a friend there who can show you around before you use it. Just text time and date.  _

"Leo. He's helping me with my unofficial investigation," Yuuri explains, already texting back that tonight is fine. 

_ Cool. Your contact is a hunter named Ketty. She got some ridiculously amazing weapons. We used to train together under the same mentor.  _

The next text is an address. 

"And how does the investigation fare?" 

Yuuri’s other work phone beeps with a text message. The one for the press. It’s some obnoxious question that Yuuri will not be answering. He merely texts back a  _ No Comment _ and shoves the phone back into his coat. "It's going. There hasn't been any new information about Nikiforov. I spent some time googling mythological creatures." 

"Did you see the list I sent you?" 

"Yeah, I'll throw them at him. See if he answers or becomes uncooperative." 

"Do you need backup? I can show up for your next meeting." 

"I got it," Yuuri reassures. As if to demonstrate his capabilities, he flicks his hand. Blue sparks of light falls from his fingertips. Each spark lands on the carpet, leaving a scorched mark. 

"The janitors are going to hate you forever." 

"No, they won't." He snaps, and the marks lighten and fade away. "See? All gone." 

Phichit hums, looking a little uncertain but does not push any further. "Got any ideas about the Apocalypse case?" 

"Find the fake antichrist. Disrupt and kill any demons surrounding him. Find the Grand Duke," Yuuri answers. 

"But any ideas of what the suspects will do next?" 

Tapping his fingers on Phichit’s desk, Yuuri thinks aloud, "If what Chris said was right in his first interview, they will be trying to finish the seals." 

"Crap, we didn't ask how many are left." Phichit grabs his phone and quickly fires off a text. He squints at his phone screen for a moment. "He says he believes they have broken forty-nine of them. They have seventeen more seals to go, but they will try for twenty to please the devil. Chris says he can send us a copy of all six hundred sixty-six seals, but it’ll take him a while to find the tablet on it." 

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. "That would be good. Although, I don't know if we can get through the bureaucratic layer to get a team to stop the breaking of the seals." 

“We can get some unofficial help.” Phichit says, “I’m sure maybe Leo or Guang Hong knows some demon hunters who can handle the seals. If we redirect our focus to seals, there’s no way we can apprehend the suspects who have been communicating and summoning Astaroth.” 

Yuuri agrees. And this is without trying to get through the red tape. All they have control over is this case and Astaroth. Beyond that, if they want Interpol resources including more personnel and funding, they need Yakov to write a nice but stern letter to his boss. No, it is far better to set the demon hunters and its community on the task. 

After a long moment of texting, Phichit glances up from his phone. "Um, it actually turns out JJ Leroy never left Europe after Guang Hong and Leo brought him here." 

Tilting his head, the witch bemusedly asks, "Why?"

"Well, they are hunting demons, because they've gotten an increase in cases. I guess the hunter society of demons felt they needed to call everyone in. JJ texted Leo and said they had to drag his girlfriend and some of his friends into quitting the show to focus on the cases. They're hunting a few powerful demons to kill." 

Yuuri doesn't blink. "How do humans kill demons?" Witches, like Yuuri and Phichit, would incinerate them and their host with a powerful blast of destructive magic. Or a hexbag. He can't imagine how regular hunters could without magic, but he knows they've been killing them for centuries without problems. 

Phichit frowns, as if he's never thought of that problem before. "I'll text and ask," he says, fingers already flying across the screen. It takes a minute for him to find an answer. "Specialized knives. The knife had to be forged using a specific procedure involving iron, salt, and a blessing, but it kills demons just fine." 

The witch smiles. "Now I want one. It'll be handy to kill demons instead of throwing curses at them." 

"Oh, less tiring for sure. Wouldn't have to take a nap afterwards." Phichit grins, his hamster running around his neck. He looks down at his hamster. "Yes, Arthur, what's up?" 

The hamster squeaks. 

"Oh, yes, right. Anything about your unofficial investigation you'll like to tell us? Anything you're not telling Leo and the rest of us?" 

Yuuri almost chokes on nothing. When he looks at Phichit's eyes, he knows there's no hiding his other findings. Phichit, who has known him for years, can recognize his every tell and the fact he's holding back on a lot of details. 

It wouldn't hurt to tell him, right? 

Hesitating, he admits, "I see him in my dreams." 

"Wait, what." Phichit blinks at him, clearly not expecting that answer in the realm of possibilities. Even the hamster on the shoulder has stopped squeaking. "What do you mean you see him in your dreams? Like through dream magic?" 

“No, through the television,” Yuuri dryly remarks. “Yes, through my dreams!”

Phichit pulls the hamster off his shoulder and lifts him in front of his face. Narrowing his eyes, the witch stares long and hard at Yuuri. He finally shakes his head. “Okay, I don’t actually see anything. I don’t see any signs of spells or curses on you. Oliver doesn’t see anything either. Did you do a sweep of your apartment for curses? Maybe someone is causing you to see him all the time.” 

“I do a sweep all the time. It’s not a curse or spell trying to make me think of him. I’ve been seeing him from the perspective of his dead lover, I think. Or maybe it’s the future. I’m not sure,” Yuuri admits. 

“Have you been keeping a dream diary?” 

Without another word, Yuuri reaches into his coat and pulls out a leather bound journal. He slides it across Phichit’s messy desk. 

The other witch flips through the pages until he finds the latest entries. To Yuuri's relief, he briefly reads through them, neither judging or expressive as his eyes flick over the words. He shuts the book and raises the book at Yuuri. “Here, catch.” A pause. “That is interesting.” 

It’s a word Yuuri can use, but it doesn’t tell him anything about what Phichit is even thinking. "But?" 

"I almost want to say soulmates—"

"Soulmates aren't real." 

Phichit smiles at that. "I don't think they exist either, but there's another option I can think of. Prophetic dreams of the future. Of potential futures. As you and Victor connect, the dreams change."

Yuuri hums. "But the first dream, the one where I cited historical clothing and such. That one, I can't figure out." 

"Reincarnation?" 

"That's not possible," Yuuri instantly dismisses, shoving the journal back into his coat. "Researchers have looked into that, and there's no evidence of reincarnation. The circumstances of the cases they investigated were already flimsy. Those two humans lived only twenty miles away from where the twins died. It was only luck that they stumbled upon the old caves they used to explore." 

The other witch leans in, propping his elbow on his desk with chin in his palm. "No evidence. That we know of." 

A moment of silence. 

"You've been watching far too many Bollywood movies," Yuuri concludes. “What did you watch this time last night? Romeo and Juliet variation? They are reborn again in modern day? They have two rivaling families, but somehow got their happily ever after?" 

_ "Neel Kamal.  _ I rewatched it last night. It's so good." 

Yuuri grins. It's one of the first Bollywood movies they watched together over Skype. "You rewatched it for the song, didn't you?" 

"Can't deny it. It's too beautiful for words." He pauses. "But even if you don't believe in reincarnation, then ask Victor. He said he wouldn't lie to you, right? Then ask him if you and him once were together a long time ago. Asked if you were his Marya. What’s the worst that can happen?” 

Yuuri can imagine a lot of the worst that can happen. He doesn’t need anyone else’s help in imagining the horrors that could happen. He can see the hot mess already. He could stumble over his words, he can make himself a complete fool in front of Victor, he can accidentally set something on fire. He can accidentally set  _ himself  _ on fire. Yuuri knows. He has made himself look foolish in front of attractive alphas before. It seemed to be a constant rule in the universe. 

One time, he got blackout drunk enough to dance on the pole back in 1989 with an alpha Korea University medical student. That was a night of disaster. He apparently indirectly caused an one-sided fight with a professor and a student, and police were eventually called to send everyone home. He had to avoid everyone but his boss the entire time he was in South Korea, because every once in a while, a Korea University student Yuuri has never met before would get a glint of recognition and make a beeline to talk to Yuuri. Yuuri hopes Phichit never finds out about this. 

"I think you've tempted the universe to curse me." 

"But I thought you didn't believe in fate?" Phichit teases, scratching his hamster's head. 

Yuuri nearly flips Phichit the bird.

* * *

"No, we're not demon hunters," laughs Ketty, a European hailing from Georgia, the country. She switches on a few high-powered camping lanterns, lighting up the barn. "I do know the basics of demon hunting, however. My mentor's old friend is a demon hunter and was able to loan a few specialty weapons. We do rare supernatural creatures. Like magical trickster foxes. Now, that was a tough case. We had to trick the fox into letting go of his victims." 

Yuuri glances around the interior. It's vaguely damp, smelling of old animal musk and feces. The walls are all spray painted with sigils of differing traps for a wide variety of supernatural creatures. There's a table filled with weapons, the glittering edge of daggers and swords perfectly shiny. Yuuri points to a water squirt gun, a toy that could be found at every child's birthday party. "What's that for?" 

"Holy water," the hunter explains. "It's a great weapon. Very easy to disperse and aim." 

"And easy to hide from police," Yuuri quips. 

"That, too!" She raises a few weapons, demonstrating each and then naming its purpose. "Katana. Created to handle demons of Japanese origins. This one is called Crimson Blade, but it's called that because of its bloody history. Oh, and this one is one of my favorites! It specializes in slaying wendigos and other dark spirits, especially those originating from North America. It used to belong to a Cherokee hunter. I ask you to be gentle with this one, because it's on loan from the tribe. This stake has no name, but it kills vampires mostly. Made of iron with an oak core." 

She goes on and on and on. Though Yuuri tries to remember them all and their purpose, he knows he's going to not remember some of it. 

Who’s he kidding? He’s not going to remember most of it. If Victor is ever dragged here, he plans on stabbing him with each object and then noting which seems to actually harm him. Of course, this is all hypothetical. 

Extremely hypothetical. 

“Now, this one,” Ketty says, raising a somewhat glowing longsword with a reverent look in her eyes. “This one is the weapon. It kills demons but rumor has it can kill angels as well.”

“Angels?” Yuuri raises an eyebrow. 

Ketty smiles grimly. “Yes, I know we only have rumors of angels existing. But this sword has a long history. It was passed down through the hunter family that’s been said to be descended from King David. Biblical King David.”

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say.

“It doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not,” the hunter continues. “But it does its job very well. A stab or even a cut anywhere in the demon’s vessel is enough to kill it. This is the only sword of its kind that we know of.” Giving the witch a severe look, she adds, “It’s surprisingly unbreakable so far, but do not lose this. It’s the only one the hunters have, and we do not fully understand all of its powers. Its name is Baraqiel.” She then hands it to the witch, who holds it by the flat edge of the blade. “Do you feel its power?”

The witch nods. “It feels pure.”

It’s a banal description of what is supposed to be a powerful weapon, but it fits perfectly. It’s pure in the way that it makes the world seem sharper somehow. Yuuri feels like his head is clearer, and the vague sleepiness he’s been feeling since he arrived from Lyon has been wiped away. 

“I don’t know if it’s capable of killing other supernatural creatures.” Ketty gives him a small smile. “But it’s worth a try. This is the only opportunity you have to try it on something else other than demons. The demon hunters rarely let it out of sight.” 

The witch sets it back down on the table. 

“So, Victor Nikiforov,” Ketty whistles. At Yuuri’s expression of surprise, she adds, “Leo had to tell him what you were hunting or else I wouldn’t have helped or gotten a lot of resources. According to my mentor’s friend, the demon hunters have so many boxes of evidence on him. He’s been a person of interest for centuries.” 

“I must lure him here then,” concludes Yuuri.

“Well, hunters have tried, but it’s not your fault if you can’t get him here,” Ketty reassures. “It’s simply another missed attempt in a long line of missed opportunities.” 

“I’ll get him here,” the witch promises. Even though there have been many others who have failed before him, he does not take failure lightly. He will succeed. And unlike the hunters, he has magic on his side.

* * *

_ Cotos Forest. Wear good hiking boots,  _ Yuuri texts.  _ I’ll see you at 3:30pm tomorrow?  _

_ Yes! See you then. ) _

Yuuri thumbs over Victor’s enthusiastic text. He feels a twinge of something. Something like guilt, perhaps. Guilt that he’s about to do something wrong on a fundamental level. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling like this. It’s just another case, right? Something he’ll investigate and maybe solve after putting in enough hours. 

But there’s something more here. 

He doesn’t let himself think too hard about it. Setting his phone aside on the nightstand, he lets himself fall into his dreamscape. Victor is there, and there’s something about seeing the shirtless man that makes his throat choke up, as if he’s swallowed something dry and rough. 

The alpha gently touches his face, every brush warm. “Are you okay, love?” He’s kneeling on the bed, the sheets wrapped around his hip. 

“I have a feeling,” Yuuri breathes, his voice and words so ardently truthful. “A terrible thing is about to happen.” 

The alpha kisses the witch on his brow. “It’ll be alright,” Victor promises, his hands brushing Yuuri’s side. “I’ll be here with you. Always.” His kisses shift downwards, down Yuuri’s jaw, down his neck, all the way down to his nipple where the alpha latches on with a kiss. 

“Ah,” Yuuri cries, all worries washed away. 

“Let me hear you,” whispers Victor. 

Guided by the alpha's hand, he lays down on his back, hands threading through the pillows and bedsheets. The witch gasps as the other man easily parts his legs apart. He whines at the hot, smothering press of Victor's mouth upon his hole, the alpha's tongue plunging in as he eats Yuuri out with contentment. Yuuri's world narrows down to this very moment as Victor lavishes attention so ardently that it's as if he belongs to no place else.

"So beautiful," Victor mutters, his tongue licking his lips. "You taste so good. Better than nectar of the gods." 

Yuuri isn't sure he deserves to be described like that. From the way Victor looks, he doubts he is comparable to the divine. It should be  _ Yuuri  _ dabbing his untrained hand at poetry to describe Victor as what Yuuri imagines to be a beautiful, eternal god. The goddess of love couldn't compare to Victor's beauty and sculpted perfection. And Yuuri has met Aphrodite once, who merely gave him a wink after reading his palms for "love lines" at a shopping mall in Paris. Aphrodite, whose powers have faded as the Roman Empire fell, still retained much of her good looks. 

“Victor,” the witch sighs, in delight and want. Words are beginning to fail him. 

"Shh, love. I'll take care of you. I got you." 

At his love’s reassurance, Yuuri  _ falls.  _

He unravels as Victor plays with Yuuri's body, hitting every nerve ending perfectly as he maps out the curves and shapes of the omega. He eventually finds himself on Victor's lap, the bond mark at his neck pulsating with relentless need. It’s answered by Victor’s kiss, pressing straight at the nerve ends, thrilling the omega. 

“Victor, I—” He gasps, losing words and thoughts. 

Slowly but reverently, the alpha’s hand snakes around Yuuri’s bare hip and spreads the omega’s dripping hole. Positioning him perfectly so, he whispers, “Breathe, Yuuri. Are you ready?”

Yuuri’s hands clutch Victor’s shoulders, his fingernails digging into the sculpted muscles of the alpha’s back. “Yes.” A moan falls from his lips as inch by inch, the other man’s member slides deep into Yuuri, carving a new home so deep and perfect inside of the omega. “Ah, ah,” Yuuri cries, his toes curling at the lewd sounds they’re making together, the slap of skin on skin music to his ears. He’s clawing into Victor’s shoulder when he gasps, “Fill me. Make me pregnant, Victor.” 

Typically, he would be flushing and crawling somewhere with no one else around so he can die out of sheer embarrassment after saying those words and making that sentence. But as Victor's eyes dilate, Yuuri screams when the alpha's dick slams into him just right, so deep, that he has no thoughts anymore, just the scorching flame of pleasure rolling upon pleasure, overwhelming his every senses. 

Victor seizes him, squeezing the generous curves of Yuuri's backside. His lips, so hot against the witch's ear, brushes against Yuuri. He growls, "I'll fill you so much, you'll look pregnant for  _ days."  _

_ Oh.  _ Now that is something he can't wait to be. 

Yuuri rolls his hips, regaining control over himself and smirking down at the alpha. He squeezes his muscles around the alpha, pleased with the choked splutter. "Well?" Glancing down at his flat stomach pointedly, he taunts, "You need to get started. Make me look like I have at least twins." 

He almost, almost regrets saying that until Victor tightens his grip upon Yuuri's waist and drives himself home. Yuuri is screaming, or maybe begging for him to fuck him harder. He can't tell as the pace quickens, his nails dragging up the alpha's back. His eyes roll back at the thickening knot forming at the base of the alpha's cock. 

"Are you ready?" Victor breathes. 

Then the knot pops in, sealing the couple together. Yuuri's acting on pure instincts as his mouth reaches out to renew their bond mark. His eyes see nothing but stars, and he's purring, satisfied, sated enough for days to come. He’s losing himself in the warm cocoon for Victor’s arms, Victor’s knot pulsating so deep and wonderfully inside him. He wants to stay, to live, in this moment for eternity. 

It's a little while before Victor pulls out, his soften member doing nothing to prevent his seed from spilling out of Yuuri's hole. The alpha frowns at this. 

"Victor," Yuuri mewls, begging. 

Victor closes Yuuri's splayed legs and pulls the blankets up over the naked omega. He kisses the witch's forehead. Quite sorry, he promises, "I'll be back soon, okay? I have work to attend to." 

The alpha nearly escapes, but is caught by Yuuri's hand at his wrist. Yuuri replies, "Okay. But come back soon. You haven't given me a second child yet." He rolls his hand over his swelling stomach, not quite as inflated as he wished. 

There's a pretty pink flush over the alpha's nose. He nods, lost for words. 

Yuuri lays there for quite some time, ignoring the liquid seeping into his bed. He fades off into a trance, standing between sleeping and awareness. It's so strange to be sleeping in a dream. Yuuri doesn’t question it too much. 

It's a footstep that makes the dream sharpen once more. The witch sits up, letting the blankets pool around his waist. "Vitya," he calls out in confusion, rubbing his eyes. 

A gust of wind brings an unfamiliar alpha scent. 

Fierce sparks and pure magic instantly rages around Yuuri's fists, his eyes frantically watching a bright figure enter through the balcony. Throwing his hands out, he's blasting blue magic at the intruder, calling upon the very essence of himself to  _ destroy  _ this stranger. Pure energy, but it's not enough as the figure draws closer and closer to Yuuri. 

As he comes closer, he becomes a shadow of pure white light, blinding Yuuri. He's not stopping under the onslaught of magic. A lesser being should have died several seconds ago, several steps ago. 

The witch screams in pain, even as his magic tries to expel the enemy. 

His eyes burn until the white light is all he sees. His hands falter, the magic exhausted. Yuuri’s too weak, and his eyes hurt far too much to be aware of anything else in the world. 

Then. Darkness.

* * *

He doesn't want to record this new entry in his journal. This dream bothers him so much that even as he hears of no updates from the hunters of their search for the witch or in any of their cases, he's far more worried about his dream. That white light. He has never seen anything like that. 

His magic failed him in the dream. 

Why would it be relevant to him now? Dream magic has never led him astray.

He resolves to look away if he ever happens to see a blinding white light. And to run far away. 

For all he knows, there's nothing he can do to kill it.

"Hey, Yuuri, you busy?" Phichit says, knocking on the doorway and the witch out of his thoughts. "We found some dead bodies in Germany. It didn't ping our software, because there were bugs and decomp all over it until Mila looked at it more closely and noticed discrepancies. Estimated time of death was two days ago." 

"You want to hop over to Germany to view the crime scene?" 

Phichit grins at him. "You know me so well." 

* * *

The bodies weren't discovered as quickly as the others, because it's a quarter of a mile off the hiking trails. The local police and its crime scene investigators have combed through the area and picked up the bodies. There's nothing but indents and crime scene markers in the fallen leaves to remind the woods of the three bodies that once laid beneath the trees. 

"Isolated," Yuuri comments. He adjusts his eyeglasses, trying to see the trail. He can see nothing but trees and bushes. "How did anyone manage to find these bodies?" 

"Dog off the leash," the other witch explains. "Tore through half the woods and ran all over here. Owner was terrified when he grabbed a rotten femur in his mouth." 

Yuuri would be terrified, too. Except he would be worried that Vicchan might have murdered someone and then dug a hole for their body. Vicchan knows how to kill and hide the body of dead rats and other such pests. Sometimes, he wonders if Vicchan could take the form of a cat. 

"Chris, by the way, believes there is a Heaven, that there are guardians, who may not be angels, watching over it. He says he has seen too many miracles happening for it to not be true." 

Yuuri narrows his eyes suspiciously at the other witch. "Are you meeting up with him?" 

"Nah, texting." He pauses. "You're meeting up with our unofficial suspect today." 

"Yes," Yuuri confirms. He pulls out his phone, checking the time. Germany has the same time zone as Spain. It's barely ten o'clock in the morning. There's plenty of time to get back to France for his hiking trip and subtle interrogation of Victor Nikiforov. 

Phichit is judging. He clicks his tongue as he stares between the crime scene photos displayed on his phone screen and Yuuri himself. "I still think you should get some backup. It's not that difficult to ask for assistance. There are hunters in the area who can help." 

"I know," Yuuri simply says. He leaves it at that. 

"I know I have to work, cause I used up all my vacation time, but I will come if you call me, Yuuri." Phichit doesn't say anything more after a long moment of silence. 

Filling the empty space up, Yuuri changes the subject. "What did Chris say about Heaven? Angels?" 

Phichit narrows his eyes, but he lets it go. "He believes they exist. But they would be similar but also different from demons."

"Well, one is evil, the other is good." 

"Physical differences," Phichit elaborates, stepping over an orange flag that marks the placement of one body. "He believes they probably aren't that different than demons. No physical bodies, cause the demon hunters would have noticed something like that. He also believes that there are seven archangels." 

"Archangels? Like even more powerful angels?" Yuuri doesn't know what to make of that. The closest to divinity he's ever been in reality is the Japanese kami. He once had to kill then with a magic-infused stake, because they were driving half a small town insane. Literally. 

"He believes it's true, not only because he's religious, but also because he's familiar with the structure of Hell. Hell has seven princes sitting at the top, right under Lucifer. In the Book of Enoch, Lucifer wanted the top spot. He wanted to not just rule Heaven but also be God." At Yuuri's incredulous expression, Phichit explains, "I wrote this all up in a report so the rest of the team can see what Chris thinks. But back to what I was saying. Because Lucifer wanted to replace God, it stands to reason that he also wanted to put his own angels in. He wanted to make sure it was his own people. So seven princes, and the mirror of that would be seven archangels." 

Yuuri doesn't even know how Phichit can get any of this straight. Abrahamic religions aren't his field of study. 

"For certain, there are three. Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel. But depending on which text you look at, the other four differ in name and power. Chris says he compiled a list of twenty names that might be possible archangels." 

"Chris really believes in this." 

"One scripture believes angels such as Uriel and Cassiel belong among the seven. Then there is another sect that believes four completely different archangels." He continues, "Chris said he had to study about the archangels, because he didn't want there to be any surprises. Studying and knowing the possibilities is how he became the king of the crossroads, which is a fairly important position to hold in Hell. If Lilith is the top demon, then Chris would be the third most powerful demon." 

"Who's the second most?" 

"Astaroth, the Grand Duke." 

Yuuri frowns at that. "Then where does Lilith fall into all of this? If Hell is a mirror of Heaven?" 

"Hell's version of Mother Mary." 

They left that corner of Germany behind at exactly twelve. There's not much to discover other than a carved anti-attention sigil in the nook of a tree. A sigil made by an athame. They weren't able to pull much information out of that. They did, however, figure out the victims once they told the local police to do a general comparison of dental records. They were all a bunch of college students from a local university. 

At the long lines ahead of them, Phichit pulls out his phone and sighs. "I really hate those darn diplomats. Why do they take forever?" 

Yuuri shrugs. He doesn't know why, and he's too busy to bother finding the answer. 

"Okay, I got Leo, Sara, and Mila to head to Germany to see if they can find anything else," the other witch says, texting away at the group chat. 

Yuuri knows. He's feeling his own phone vibrate with all the notifications he's getting. He'll read them all later. He knows how it is. He once had to backread over five hundred text messages. 

"Do you have a plan for luring the suspect?" 

"I have a few ideas. But I need to get to the hiking trail early to set a few things up." 

Phichit taps his chin. "Are you doing the portal grab?" 

"Maybe," the witch admits. 

"Yeah, you do have to set up some stuff," the other witch agrees. "You think you can steer him into the right direction?" 

"I've been there before. I can lead us through the trails." 

"Okay. You got your speed dials all in order? Weapons all nicely organized?" 

"Yes," Yuuri confirms, nearly rolling his eyes as they move up in line. Under his breath, he mutters, "Mother." 

"I heard that, son."

* * *

In his best running shoes, Yuuri uses a small piece of chalk to draw a small teleportation sigil on the sidewalk. Once he uses it, it'll disappear so no curious witches can accidentally find themselves trapped inside the barn. The sigil is partially hidden underneath a bench. He merely has to get Victor Nikiforov a few meters away to activate the sigil. 

Of course, the problem is they're starting at one end of the trail. Close to the parking lot. Yuuri will have to somehow convince the alpha to jog or hike down this particular path. Then he'll have to nab him fast enough before anyone sees or else he'll end up just in time for the evening news. 

Yuuri eventually makes it to their meeting spot. He's stretching himself out, taking advantage of the hour left before his appointment with the suspect. It's a rather nice day in this part of Madrid. Autumn with falling orange leaves. The occasional dog walker and mom with stroller pushing past him. 

Yuuri has enough fashion sense not to wear his magical wool coat with endless pockets. With sorrow, he had to convert it into a black fanny pack. He looks like an unfashionable grandpa in a black windbreaker and matching pants. Phichit, if he was here, would embarrass him on Instagram by posting pictures with three paragraphs of tags. Roasting, he calls it. 

It's during his leg stretch when his phone rings. Yuuri frowns. Most people know better than to call him during work hours. Unless it’s work. 

It's Mari. 

He picks up automatically. In Japanese, he greets her. "Hello, Mari. Is everything alright?" 

Usually, Mari texts. She rarely calls unless it's something important like Vicchan attracting the attention of the local hunter communities again. 

Her voice is strangely collected. Too collected. "Yuuri, are you sitting down?" 

Glancing at himself, he is most clearly not sitting down. His left leg is bent while his right leg stretches out behind him. "Yes," he lies. 

Mari is taking none of it. "Sit down." 

Yuuri sinks down onto the grass. He rearranges his legs into a diamond-shaped formation. "What is it, Mari?" 

She sniffles, no words coming out. 

His heart misses a beat. "Mari?" 

"She's gone." 

"What? What do you mean? Who?" 

She's crying for certain. "Mom. I. . ." She pauses, choking up. "The police is here. They've barricaded the bedroom and the hallway. It's. . ." 

"Mari, slow down. I don't understand." 

Silence. 

"Mom's gone."

* * *

Mari had to hand her phone to a local police officer, who, in emotionless but tactfully polite details, describes what happened. A small part of Yuuri knows that despite his lack of social graces, he has given far better condolences than this officer. 

"An intruder came in through the balcony two hours ago," explains the officer, his words sending a chill through the witch's spine. 

It reminds him of his dream. Of that blinding white light. 

"We do not believe he has stolen anything. All valuables appear to be still in the safe." Perhaps trying to reassure Yuuri, he adds, "He surprised her. She was not in prolonged pain when she passed." 

Yuuri can't see anything. Tears flood his eyes, and he's so aware of how loud his sniffles are, especially in the awkward silence. He's trying to control his gasps, the desperation in his lungs extending far beyond air. He doesn't believe it. He can't believe it. 

"We'll be conducting a full investigation. We'll leave no stone left unturned," the officer continues, his voice softened to reassure. "I'm terribly sorry for your loss." 

Yuuri would have stayed on the grass forever. He would have sat on the grass for so long, through rain and shine, struck dumb by this earthshaking news. It seems surreal, as if he's underwater and unable to find air. 

His mom is gone. 

The alarm, the five minute warning for his next appointment, blares at him. His hand shakes as he tries a few times to turn off the alarm. He's successful on the fourth try. 

Drying his tears as quickly as possible, he stands at the meeting spot. He tries to look normal, as if it's a perfectly normal day with sun shining overhead. Not a single cloud in sight. He must have been unsuccessful, because when Victor Nikiforov approaches him in a red tracksuit, the alpha frowns in concern at him. 

He, thankfully, does not acknowledge the red, teary eyes or the puffy nose. Instead, he simply says in perfect Japanese, "Good afternoon, Yuuri. Jogging, walking, or running today?" 

"Jog." Then he tears off down the path, the alpha right at his heels. 

It's a beautiful, scenic route. A route Yuuri does not enjoy as he's still drowning under so many thoughts and feelings. Maybe if he never left Hasetsu for Interpol, he would have been there for his family when they needed him the most. Maybe his mom wouldn't have died if he was there. Maybe he could have fended the intruder off, captured him. Arrested him. Then no one would have been hurt. 

It takes the clearing of Victor's throat for him to pull himself out of his thoughts. 

Innocuously, he asks, "How's your day at work?" 

"Fine." 

Victor, keeping up with Yuuri's pace, fills in the silence between them. "I found the medical conference excessively boring. Don't tell my colleagues that. They’ll be heartbroken. I spent more time counting the hairs left on Dr. Brown's head than learning any useful techniques." 

These words are enough to draw Yuuri back to what needs to be done. Work. Right. Yuuri can throw himself into work. He remembers Phichit’s list of potential supernatural creatures Victor could be. They pass by a mother with a stroller, and it’s after they put some distance away from prying ears, he asks, “Undead?”

“Huh?” Victor raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Are you undead?” 

The alpha laughs. “No.” 

“A ghost?” 

“Interesting theory, but no, I’m not a ghost.” 

“A banshee?”

“I don’t scream at people in that way.” 

“How about Dazhbog?”

“I’m not a Russian sun god.” He pauses and adds, “Dazhbog is dead, actually. He picked a fight with the wrong god, and it did not end well for him. I was told it was a slow death. Very difficult to say, because no one but his killer saw him die. His killer was Zeus, a Greek god. This happened a few centuries ago.” Victor jogs, right at the witch’s left side. 

Yuuri hums. “A fairy?” 

Victor shakes his head. “No, not that either.” 

The witch hums, his eyes kept on the path ahead of him. They’re close. They’re almost at that bench. He offhandedly says, “How about a god?” 

“In some religions, I am considered one,” the alpha admits. 

Yuuri nearly trips. He did not expect that idea to gain traction. His memories bring up the cold but beautiful face of Chang’e, the Chinese goddess of the moon. So lost in the new and changed modern world, she sat in a newly constructed apartment building in China, refusing to move from the roof. In the legends, it’s been said she was trapped on the moon for eternity after eating two pills. One for immortality, the second to fly to the moon. Wouldn’t it be a relief to no longer be on the moon again? But no, she wanted to be on the moon, her face so longing towards the sky. She hitched a ride on Apollo 12 to earth, and it took the Chang’e 4, a Chinese spacecraft mission, to bring her back. She was not happy about living in this world for fifty years. 

He can’t imagine why. The moon seems incredibly boring in comparison to the earth, just a rock with craters and the occasional flying asteroid. But Chang’e lived on the moon for thousands of years, so perhaps, she only wanted to return home. 

Slowing down his pace, Yuuri pauses by the bench. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Victor stop a meter away, stretching his legs out. He reaches into his fanny pack for a bottle of water. Blinking at the other man, he wonders, “How can you be considered a god but not a god?” He takes a sip of water. 

“I have overlap with other religions,” Victor explains. “My sphere of influence extends far beyond the mythologies. Multiple myths.” 

The witch frowns. In theory, Victor should be common enough that Yuuri should have heard what he is. However, he can’t seem to think of anything at all. “So what exactly do you do? What do you know?” 

Victor suddenly stands straight up, doing arm stretches. It’s a long moment before he says anything at all. “Seven thirty-nine post meridiem.”

“Huh? What does that mean?” 

He repeats it. “Seven thirty-nine post meridiem, Japanese local time. The twenty-fourth of October.” 

Yuuri stares at the alpha, not understanding. “That’s today. But it’s ten in Japan right now.” Then the answer strikes him, his stomach churning with grief. “What are you saying? What do you know?” Yuuri demands, his hand yanking on the other man’s red and white jacket. It takes merely a flick of thought for him to pull them both through the portal. 

“Yuuri, I—” Victor frowns, noticing the changed scenery. “Why did you portal us here?” He looks down at his feet, noticing a general trap sigil below him. 

Only a stream of light through the window illuminates insides the barn. Yuuri pivots to the table of weapons, immediately grabbing the water pistol. He points it directly at Victor. Pulling the trigger, a stream of holy water splashes upon Victor’s face. 

The alpha blinks, his tongue tasting the liquid. Bemused, he cocks his head, so reminiscent of Vicchan. “Why holy water?” 

“Say what that means,” Yuuri chokes out, tears filling his eyes. “Say what that means. Seven thirty-nine pm, Japanese local time. Today. What happened?” 

“Yuuri,” Victor gently says, his expression sorrowful. 

The witch grabs a crossbow filled with silver arrows. Aiming one in general direction of Victor, he watches as the arrow is merely caught by the alpha’s quick hand, who remains unaffected by the touch of silver. “Admit it! You know what happened!” Yuuri shouts, tossing a stake right at Victor’s chest. 

The other man looks down, unperturbed by the stake sticking in him like a porcupine quill. As if merely adjusting his jacket, he pulls the stake out of his chest. There is no blood on the tip. It’s unceremoniously dropped to the ground. “Yuuri.” The witch’s name is so soft and gentle on his lips. As if he actually cares. 

Yuuri frantically goes through the weapons on the table. He’s horrified at Victor for being entirely unaffected by the weapons but even more so at himself. He could kill Victor. Victor should have been dead when the witch’s athame went through Victor’s neck. Victor definitely should have been dead when he stabbed him in the lungs with a demon-killing knife. Victor most definitely should have been dead when a hexbag of explosives blew up in his face. 

Victor’s clothes gets blown into pieces, showing off a perfect, unmarked chest. A chest Yuuri has seen very well in his dreams. The clothes get reformed easily in Yuuri’s next blink of an eye. And Victor endures through Yuuri’s tantrum, as if Yuuri is only a gentle rain sprinkling down over his head. He always returns to his pristine appearance in between Yuuri’s weapons. 

It’s when Yuuri gets to the final weapon. The sword of Baraqiel. That’s what makes Victor’s expression change a little. 

“Baraqiel,” he says with surprise, his eyes on the sword. “Lightning of God.” 

“Can this kill you?” Yuuri’s voice is frighteningly calm, eerily dead. 

“No,” Victor answers. 

The witch drives the sword right through the alpha’s stomach, even as it strangely pains him in Yuuri’s own heart. He lets go, backing away at the sight of the sword stuck inside Victor. Yuuri realizes Victor looks far too serene for these circumstances. He weakly sinks onto the floor, all weapons exhausted and used. None of them affected Victor. 

Tears quickly spill out of his eyes. 

Victor calmly grabs the hilt and pulls it out of himself. The sword is dropped to the floor like all the other weapons. He steps out of the trap sigil and squats in front of the witch. He sighs. “I don’t know what to do when someone cries. I’m not very good with tears.” 

Yuuri wraps his arms around his legs.

Seven thirty-nine post meridiem, Japanese local time. The twenty-fourth of October.

“Tell me what you know,” Yuuri whispers, in between his tears. 

“I, uh. . .” Victor’s voice trails off. He echoes himself. “Seven thirty-nine post meridiem, Japanese local time. The twenty-fourth of October. Hasetsu, Kyushu, Japan. At that exact time and place, Hiroko Katsuki, who was born in 1938 at three o’clock in the morning and was eighty-one years old, was killed by a thief. A home invader.” His hands fidget in front of him, as if unsure whether to reach out to Yuuri. His silver bangs fall over his eyes. 

“How did you know?” 

“I was there.” 

This, Yuuri freezes at. His head raises. He could be looking at a potential witness. He could be looking at her killer. It’s all incredibly confusing, but Yuuri manages to choke out, “Did you kill her?” There’s no finesse to his interrogation technique, no sense of subtlety. This is probably the worst interrogation Yuuri has ever conducted in his entire life, far worse than his interrogation involving Mari and the missing peanut butter cookies when he was six years old. 

“No.” 

“Then why were you there?” Yuuri’s mind whirls. How can he even be there? The fastest way to travel from Spain to Japan is the international magical portals. It takes a few hours, because the line for customs is hellishly long. It’s still quicker than an airplane. 

“I was there so she could die quickly and as painlessly as possible. So I can cut the string between her soul and her body. She was meant to die today. The nearest paramedics in Hasetsu were fifteen minutes away. She would have bled out in eight minutes internally, even as your sister and your father tried to magically heal her.” 

“How could you possibly know that?”

This, Victor does not answer. 

Yuuri wipes away his tears. He processes the information. The major clues Victor has offered him. Then he understands. Or at least, he believes he understands. He does not believe Victor will lie to him. Omit, yes. But not directly lie. So he directly asks the one question he’s been goaded and pushed to inquiry: 

“Are you Death?” 


	5. Enoch I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viva La Vida by Coldplay

“Are you Death?” He pauses. “The Grim Reaper?” 

Victor offers him a hand. “It’ll be easier if I show you.” A pause. “Do you trust me?” 

There’s a part of him that doesn’t. Somewhere out there, Phichit is writing a book on bad reasons why to not take a cute boy’s hand. But nonetheless, Yuuri strangely takes his hand. He’s puzzled as the world suddenly changes in appearance and colors. As if their surroundings have suddenly decided to become a noisy restaurant with a bar. He’s standing up now, and it’s disconcerting how people are walking through him without seeing him. Like literally walking through him, as if he’s an invisible spirit or ghost. Victor doesn’t even blink when the flower girls run straight through his legs. 

Yuuri watches them go, giggling and laughing at the ring dog. He almost asks what they are doing here, when he remembers what he asked Victor merely a few moments earlier. 

Death. 

_Are you Death?_

The Maid of Honor, wearing a purple dress instead of the pink the other bridesmaids wear, stands. She hits her champagne glass with a fork. The tinkering dims the noise of the reception hall. "May I please have your attention?" She sighs in delight when all eyes direct themselves to her. "Sabrina and Josh, they are the couple we all aspire ourselves to be part of. The perfect couple with indivisible, unconditional, true love. I was lucky enough to be in college with them both." She goes on and on about how they met in college and fell in love after a few accidents and misunderstandings. 

Yuuri looks around, wondering who is about to die. 

It’s the severe hacking, choking noise coming from an elderly lady that draws a sharp close to the Maid of Honor’s speech. She weakly fidgets with her plastic mask linked to a portable oxygen tank. 

“Grandma?” shouts the groom, instantly flying to her side. “Are you okay?” 

Tears fill the old lady’s cloudy eyes as she becomes a frightening shade of purple. There are dozens of people surrounding her, crowding her. Craning his head, Yuuri can’t quite see what’s happening, but he understands the gist of it. 

She’s not breathing anymore. 

“Clear the room!” screams another person. “Give her space! Someone call the paramedics!” 

No one sees Victor letting go of Yuuri’s hand. No one sees Victor moving through the dispersing crowd like a ghost. No one sees Victor kneeling by the struggling woman in a wheelchair. No one sees any of this happening. No one but Yuuri. 

It takes merely a touch on her shoulder for her struggles to stop. She glows brighter for a moment. Then she relaxes, her eyes blank and empty to the world. 

Victor returns to Yuuri’s side. “Come,” he says, holding out his hand to the witch. “We don’t have a lot of time for the next person on my list.” To Yuuri’s shock, he whips out a smartphone in his other hand. 

The witch peers over Victor’s shoulder. There’s an app for collecting souls, which is disturbing on a whole other level. He’s surprised by the blatant efficiencies and user-friendly features this app possesses. The light red names are for those not reaped while the green is for those collected, Yuuri guesses. A name, Rosetta James, changes from red to green. Her listed location, Portland, Washington, disappears. 

There are dozens like this. 

_Johnny Sebastian: Los Angeles, California_

_Sarah Lukas: Westminster, California_

_Minerva Eriksen: Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts_

_Caleb Sanchez: Manhattan, New York_

_Po Leung: Xi'an, Shaanxi_

_Alexander Martin: Cambridge, England_

The list goes on. 

The scene shifts. They find themselves in a different restaurant. It's a nice place, a true family establishment. Yuuri couldn't figure out who is meant to die here until a man literally drops dead on the way to the bathroom. People rush him, others rudely pull out their cell phones from nowhere to record the off duty doctors trying to save a lost life. 

No one sees Victor giving a brief touch to the dead man. Just a quick touch, long enough to snap the soul's ties to the living world. 

The scene changes once again. 

Yuuri's eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. It's not quite sunrise in this corner of the world. He's comforted by the sight of Victor, who is glowing in his red tracksuit despite the shadows. 

"Where are we?" 

"Westminster, California. It's almost seven o'clock in the morning," Victor answers, his gaze hard on a convenience store just across the intersection. 

Yuuri squints, adjusting his glasses. He's not sure what he's supposed to be watching out for. Who, to be precise. He glances overhead at the traffic lights, noting the light changes. Green, then yellow, then red. 

A woman hurriedly comes out through the convenience store, the only living soul around. She's looking down at her shopping bag, not paying attention to anything else. Absentmindedly, she hits the pedestrian button and offers a brief glance at the walking signal light. It's her light. 

She's two thirds across the road when it happens. Yuuri is suddenly reminded of his dream with Vicchan, where his pet hellhound was hit by a car turning left. This car breaks the red light, not braking even as it approaches the lady at the speed of sound. 

Physics sends her sprawling and bloody on the hard sidewalk, over four meters away from where she started. She does not move. 

Her white plastic bag, filled with wet broken glass bottles, waves pathetically on the road, forgotten. 

Victor merely takes a few steps forward, tapping her on the shoulder. Another cord, snipped. Another person, dead. 

The witch, in horror, watches the car disappear. 

"They'll catch her," Victor reassures, gesturing towards the convenience store employee with a phone in his hand. "He got a video of this." 

Yuuri nods, accepting but unsettled. 

The world changes once again. Plano, Texas. Salvador, Brazil. La Serena, Chile. Graz, Austria. Odesa, Ukraine. Victor goes through the motions. Someone falls, weakens. He's there to reap their soul. Yuuri is mostly silent. Most of the people dying are old, sick, or in an accident. He has yet to see a truly gruesome death. 

It's their stop in Afghanistan that makes Yuuri pause. Yuuri doesn't even recognize their surroundings. Victor had to announce their destination like an airplane captain landing at JFK. 

It's practically a wasteland. 

The witch almost doesn't want to watch this unfold. He knows how this story is going to unfold. A distant rumbling deeply unsettles the witch. Then the sound explodes around them as soldiers, dirty and ragged, blindly fire their weapons at their hidden enemy. 

Yuuri's heart frantically pounds, his hand unthinkingly reaching for Victor’s. He barely manages to pull back at the last second possible, feeling the hot brush of Victor’s hand. He stares straight at the chaotic battlefields, blushing scarlet. 

Paling upon redirecting his eyes to the battle, the witch flinches upon seeing a body explode into blood and flesh upon contact with an explosive device. There is another victim, being pumped full of machine gun bullets. Yuuri wants to look away. But he can't. 

“‘A small but noteworthy note. I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me,’” Victor quotes. He stands, merely watching their deaths instead of approaching them to touch. Death turns towards Yuuri, raising a perfect eyebrow. _“The Book Thief.”_

Yuuri vaguely remembers seeing a movie trailer on TV called _The Book Thief._ "What is that about?" 

"The second World War. Narrated by Death, the character and narrator. But the story was centered around the young life of a girl during the war," Victor patiently explains, his bangs moving with the wind as a grenade explodes overhead. 

Despite the noise of the battlefield, Yuuri is surprised he could hear every word. "Do you feel like Death in the story is similar to you?" 

The other man shakes his head. "We share some similarities, but unlike him, I'm only haunted by one human. Maybe two. Four at most."

There is no moment of silence. Just quieting screams and cries of people dying. The occasional gasp. 

"You're not going to each body to reap their souls?" The witch asks, confused. 

Victor shakes his head. "I don't actually need to touch when the severing of the body and soul is this severe." He points to the example of a bloody body of an insurgent, head nowhere to be found. "I only need to observe." And just like he says, he watches. 

Suddenly, Yuuri remembers what Yakov said. About how he saw Victor standing in an untouched clearing of land, watching the battlefields as men senselessly killed each other. 

It takes a while before there's a ceasefire. Yuuri can't even bring himself to count the dead. 

The scene shifts again. 

He's unnerved by the pristine, sterile room of a hospital. But not just any old room in the hospital. An operating room. There's already a body cut open on the operating table. 

Victor stands off to the side, doctors and nurses reaching through him for the cabinets for supplies. 

It's contained chaos, the opposite of the senseless, mad chaos he witnessed in Afghanistan. Nurses and doctors are briskly walking back and forth in between tables of surgical tools. There’s someone watching through the two-way window, and Yuuri’s ears attune themselves to the soothing, lulling beats of the heart rate monitor. 

A surgeon, his face obscured by a green-blue mask, makes a small incision with a scalpel. His eyes are focused on the patient, despite his words. “This is a bad time to ask, Greg, but have you ever been sued?” 

“That’s a bad thing to ask,” condemns the tech. “You’re tempting something out there.” 

On the other side of the glass, the anesthesiologist rolls her eyes. 

In Yuuri’s eyes, this all looks like regular procedure. There is no sign of anything amiss. But it does not explain the presence of Victor, who stands there in the wings, just waiting for something to happen. 

The patient’s story is told through the heart rate monitor. Stable, each beat as perfect as a metronome. Then the rate picks up, rising faster and faster. The team of doctors and nurses are no longer joking, but still acting as if this is all normal. But it isn’t. There is worry on every face, their ingrained training the only thing keeping them from fully panicking. Yuuri doesn’t understand the situation, the growing complication they're facing, nor the tools they bring out to save their patient’s life, but even he can read this atmosphere. 

They’re losing her. Faster than they expected. 

Breezing through the medical personnel, Victor finally approaches the patient, simply touching her on the shoulder. The heart rate monitor sharply flatlines. 

They spend a lot of time trying to resuscitate the patient. Finally, the leading surgeon shakes her head. Tears fill her eyes, and she pulls off her mask. In a subdue, quiet voice, she whispers: 

“Code called nine fifty am.” 

A resident removes the drape covering the patient’s face. Her incredibly young face. Yuuri is immediately struck by her youth. He can feel tears streaming down his face, his heart going out for this girl who has never truly lived her life. 

“Jesus Christ,” breathes an intern. “How old was the patient?”

"Breanna." 

"What?" 

"Her name was Breanna." 

"Oh." 

“Eight. Almost nine. Her birthday was tomorrow.” A pause from the surgeon. “The cancer metastasized so much. We didn’t even know it was that much.” The surgeon walks out of the operating room, her back hitting against the wall as she sinks to the floor in anguish. 

“No more,” Yuuri chokes out, more tears flooding his face. “Please no more. I don’t need to see anymore.” 

Victor doesn’t even twitch when they’re brought back to the barn. Sunlight casts a light shadow across his face. He quietly stands off in the distance, fidgeting as Yuuri sinks to the floor and cries again for a girl he doesn’t even know. A life lost, cut before it could have truly lived. There's something broken inside of him, as if he's feeling a little piece of his heart crack once more. His mom's death caused a splinter right down the middle; this girl's death created hairline fractures, a spider's web of hurt in his chest. 

"Why did she have to die?” 

“Cancer,” Victor replies, his voice soft. He kneels right by the witch, not touching at all. But his eyes are longing, as if he would like nothing more than to reach Yuuri, meeting him right where he’s at. 

“But why?” Yuuri hates the confusion in Victor’s eyes. As if he does not understand how wrong it is for this girl to die. As if he does not see Yuuri’s perspective, Yuuri’s thoughts on this horrible tragedy. “Why did she have to die?” 

“Yuuri,” the other man breathes, inhaling deeply. Perhaps out of weariness, of bone-deep marks left by the relentless grind of time. “Death is a constant in the cycle. Men, women, animals. Of all ages, whether in sickness or in great health. They are born. They die. No one is immune.” He pauses, “Everything. Must. Die.” 

“But she’s so young.” As soon as he pointed that out, the witch realizes how dumb are his words, this very thought he expressed. Though the modern lifestyle and technologies provided protection and prevented unnecessary deaths, there are still children who pass away at birth, mothers who bleed out on the operating table, and boys who die fighting in an eternal war under a bloodied flag. No one is safe. No one will ever be safe from the end. 

“Yes,” Victor agrees, saying nothing else. 

“You are Death. The Grim Reaper?”

“Yes.” The other man nods. “A bitter truth, a hard pill to swallow.” 

Yuuri raises his head, wiping away his tears on his sleeve. He’ll regret it on laundry day, but he just wants to stop crying. He chokes out, “You saw my mom die?”

The alpha has enough tact to hesitate at this question. Nonetheless, he softly answers, “I did.” His words are soothingly neutral, an impartial witness to a horrible act. He does not say nor offer anything else. 

“How?” And the investigator in Yuuri, the one who always hunts for questions and their resulting answers, crawl up the witch’s throat. “How did she die? Who killed her?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.” He continues, “Something about interfering with the grand scheme of time.” 

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well.” Victor pauses, as if trying to come up with a clear cut explanation. “Think about physics. The white ball in a game of pool is used to hit the other balls in that triangular formation. Where the balls end up rolling to depends on the velocity and force offered by the white ball, correct?” 

Yuuri can sort of imagine it. He also has not played pool since living in South Korea. 

"Well, isn't it against the rules to pick up a colored ball and move it to where you wish it to be?" Victor questions hypothetically. “Once you moved a colored ball, the trajectory of all the other balls have changed forevermore. Can you imagine the ripples I will leave if I tell you her killer? Your path, today’s plans of heading home and doing a little bit of work at home, will not happen. You will slow down the progress of your case if I give you the answer this second. Can you imagine the changes two weeks from now? A month? Ten years? Every small action has a big impact.” 

“But you’re a doctor. You work as a surgeon for one of the best public hospitals in Spain. You have saved many lives over the course of your medical career,” Yuuri protests, pointing out the flaws in his logic. “You have been seen by hundreds of people. Demon hunters, Interpol agents, the U.S. intelligence community, the supernatural academia community. . . The list goes on. You can not say that _this_ ripple is something you can’t do!” Yuuri flush, after hearing his outburst echo back at him. 

The alpha bitterly remarks, “What makes you think I did not cause ripples? What makes you think I did not learn from the ripples I made? I made a small mistake in the year of 47 before Christ. Next thing I knew, Julius Caesar ran on the information I indirectly gave him and invaded the land called Gaul, a place now known as France. He raged war for eight years. Half a million people died, and the Roman Empire expanded. Western civilization has never been the same since. This is not even the worst of the mistakes I’ve made.” 

Yuuri can’t possibly imagine knowing, seeing Julius Caesar, who was perhaps one of the greatest military leaders in all of history. He has his own chapter in the history books on military conquests next to Hannibal Barca, Genghis Khan, and Napoleon Bonaparte. 

The sudden shrill ring of his phone startles the witch. Yuuri scans the screen for caller ID, his other eye watching the alpha closely. Mari again. He wants to pick up, but he's far too overwhelmed with the matter at hand. He flicks his phone screen upwards to send a pre-written text message of _Sorry, I'm busy right now. I'll call you back later._

It's that same moment when the witch notices the time. It's merely 3:46 pm. 

_“Code called nine fifty am.”_

That's what the surgeon said. Did they— 

"That girl,” Yuuri scrambles, his fragmented thoughts coming together like pieces in a puzzle. “That girl died at the fifty minute mark.”

“Yes.”

“It’s three forty-six right now.” A pause. “Forty-six.” 

“Yes.” Brushing his silver bangs aside, Victor explains, “I’m far quicker at cutting ties between the soul and body. I only stayed longer than I usually do to show you how they die.”

Yuuri thinks back. At exactly three thirty, he met up with Victor. They jogged for quite some distance. He estimates that it’s about less than a mile of dirt trails between the bench with the sigil and the parking lot. Perhaps eight minutes of jogging. Then it was maybe three minutes of testing every single weapon Ketty had on Victor. This gives Victor about five minutes to show Yuuri all the souls he’s collected, traversing across the world and the continents for dead people. 

Yuuri knows it took Victor much longer than five minutes to show him a gruesome battle in Afghanistan. "It's impossible to be only three forty-six in the afternoon." 

"It's possible when I time travel," Victor says matter-of-factly. At Yuuri's look of astonishment, he nods. "Yes, I can hop forward a few minutes here and there. Hours forward or backwards, if I wanted to." He adds, "Every second, two people die. I have to time travel if I want to keep up with the mortality rate." 

Yuuri thinks it's still impossible. Even with time travel. Victor should technically be spending every second he's got to collect souls, not working a hospital shift in the ER. But then again, Victor is not human. What does Yuuri know of these matters?

"Ripples," Yuuri suddenly blurts out. 

"Yes?" It's clearly an unexpected change in subject. "What about them?" 

"You said you can't make ripples due to unforeseen consequences," Yuuri says, his heart slowing down to a steady drum. He can feel a cool steadiness wash over. "So why are you playing a doctor in Madrid?" 

"I made a choice a few thousand years ago. Since then, I have to contain the ripples that choice created." 

"What choice?" Yuuri questions. 

Victor does not answer. He smiles sweetly at the witch, disappearing into thin air like a magician's trick. Yuuri has never seen a teleportation so flawless outside of television that he wasted three minutes simply staring in awe at the empty space Victor once occupied. 

It's clear his audience with Death is over.

* * *

He ends up calling Phichit to reassure him of his life and good health. He makes no mention of his mother’s death, despite it being on the slip of his tongue. After texting Ketty to give her the okay for her to retrieve the small collection of weapons, Yuuri begins the slow work of putting the weapons back on the table by hand. He pauses at the one weapon he is most curious about. 

The sword. The sword that can kill demons and supposedly angels. Yuuri's still holding it by the flat side of the blade when Ketty arrives.

"Did it work?" She says in English, not bothering with a greeting. She skips to his side, standing a meter away. Just out of the sword's reach. "I see he was here, though. The trap activated itself." 

Yuuri looks down to the floor. He has forgotten about the general trap sigil. It's keyed specifically to Victor, but it clearly didn't do anything useful, because he teleported in and out of it with ease. "He knows this sword." 

"He does?" She comes closer once Yuuri sets the sword back onto the table. "Did you figure out why?" 

The witch shakes his head. "He called it by its name. Baraqiel." 

Ketty frowns. She picks up a stake and cocks her head. "You didn't kill him?" 

"I couldn't. He's immune to all of this." 

The hunter stares at each weapon. She's stunned. Pointing to the sword, she questions, "You mean, even this?" 

"Yes."

She lets out a slow exhale, accepting the fact far quicker than Yuuri expected. "But did you figure out what he is?" 

At this question, Yuuri makes towards the exit. "A bitter truth" is all he says to her.

* * *

He's back in his apartment, doing work from home. He figures he would visit Japan on the weekends, booking an early morning passage through the international portal. He's putting more hours on the Apocalypse case by hunting down the rat poison. The former owner still had old records of the particular poisons he sold and the shipments he made in the 80s. He finally emailed Yuuri an hour ago with pdf copies. 

It turns out that the poison is not quite that common in those days. It was expensive compared to the cheaper and safer alternatives. Consumers had to buy it in bulk, in packages of thirty, fifty, or a hundred traps. Most buyers ended up to be factories and businesses. Only three were in Italy, and only one factory, Calzaturificio Recci, was located fairly close to Siena, Italy. Precisely four miles away. 

After a Google search garnering absolute zilch about Calzaturificio Recci, Yuuri taps into the Interpol database. They don’t have records about Italian taxes, but they do have old satellite photos of that factory from just a few months ago. He pulls up Google maps street photos of the factory’s address, which was taken back in October 2017. The building’s old, depressing, and destitute. There are no windows. Someone has taken to covering it with layers upon layers of graffiti. Yuuri estimates the factory must have been abandoned for years, long enough for someone else to take advantage of the space. 

He texts the address in the group chat. Leo or Guang Hong or Mila will eventually check up on the location. Or at least run a better background check on it. 

Then he powers down his work laptop. With a sigh, he picks up his phone to call someone he's been avoiding all day. He doesn't care about the time zones. Mari, like Yuuri, will hardly sleep tonight. She’ll probably still be up until four in the morning, tossing and turning all night. 

It’s when he’s settling in his bed did he realize he forgot to underhandedly ask Victor two important questions: 

Why do they always live in the same place? No matter how far they go, no matter what circumstances there were, they always end up living in the same place, the same time. 

And does Victor know anything about these dreams? 

Yuuri glances out the window, searching for answers in the sunset. There’s nothing out there, no written truth in the sky. He sighs, turning his gaze away from the Hospital Universitario La Paz. 

“Hi, Mari,” he says in Japanese, his voice muted. He does not know what to say. The investigator in him threatens to take over. To begin questioning about the circumstances of his mother’s death. His mind tinkers, looking from angle to angle and searching for answers. But the brother in him tells him to retreat, to pull back from touching on painful thoughts. Though his heart would like nothing more than to run to Japan and to hunt for his mother’s killer, he knows that it would be best left to the local police. 

Ciao Ciao once said that it’s the personal cases that makes the investigators falter. Too personal, too close to see the truth. It’s best to abstain. 

"Dad got drunk today. Super drunk."

Yuuri stifles laughs. "Did he get his stomach painted again?" 

"Yeah, half the town showed up.” She awkwardly pauses, “He forgot for a few hours and then he turned to call for Mom and realized she would not respond. Never respond again." 

"Is he okay?" As soon as that question slips, Yuuri wants to curse himself. How could his father be okay after having his wife die in their very home? But perhaps he's luckier than Mari and him. At least, when he's drunk and asleep, he does not dream. 

"As well as he could be." She sighs. "I wish you were here so we can hunt down this piece of slimeball and then turn him into a rabbit so he could be torn apart by a pack of hungry rabid dogs." 

"Mari," Yuuri chides. "Don't say that. We must see justice has been delivered properly. Not revenge." 

Yuuri knows it's the sort of stuff Ciao Ciao has taught him during his training years, but it's the only thing holding Yuuri back from running immediately to Japan. That and the cases. He can't afford to let his coworkers down, no matter what else his heart desires. 

He's also somewhat afraid Mari might do that. She's the most powerful witch in Japan who is also the top expert at transformative magic. Dream magic may have been the first field she learned, but her true talent lies in turning rats into pork steaks, jellyfish into sharks, and schools of fishes into whales. As a child, she delighted Hiroko Katsuki when it was apparent she had the exact same talent as Mari's maternal grandmother. Mari remains in the small percentage of transformative experts who can drastically change objects from one thing to another despite their severe size differences. 

"I'm worried about Vicchan. When he saw the aftermath, he ran away somewhere. Haven't seen him since," his sister comments, lowering her voice. 

Yuuri's heart skips a beat. "Is he—" 

"He's around. Hiding in the shadows. I left a bowl of sausage. He ate two thirds." 

The witch slowly pulls his words together. "Do you think he blames himself?" 

"I don't know." 

Vicchan, as a hellhound, was their friend and protector when they were children. He barked at the local gangsters when they came too close to them. He tore apart a Japanese demon that tried to feed off of Yuuri's heart by overwhelming the witch's anxiety. He comforted Mari when her then-boyfriend dumped her. Nowadays, he mostly naps in Yuuri's old room and chews on Yuuri's old shoes. 

"There's one more thing," Mari says, interrupting Yuuri’s thoughts. "The police officer wants me to keep this information under wraps, but he said it was okay to share with you. He. . . The killer. . ." Her voice quiets. 

"Yes?" 

"He did steal something from us," she whispers. "Remember our family's genealogy book?"

Yuuri remembers it. That dusty old book records the Katsuki family tree, which is quite narrow for its history stretching back for almost one and a half thousand years. They kept it among the old spellbooks and grimoires. 

"He took that." 

Baffled, Yuuri speculates, "Why would he take that? It's not as valuable as the Prince's grimoire we have like right next to it. There's nothing interesting in there except for our poor habit of reusing and recycling names." 

"Maybe he mistaken it for a dangerous spellbook," the other witch suggests. "But we didn't notice it was gone until I looked for a grimoire and didn't see our genealogy book." 

"Mari," scolds Yuuri. "What grimoire were you looking for?" He knows that Mari doesn't need any grimoire unless it was for a spell or curse she didn't know. 

"Maybe I was looking to brush up on my weather spells." 

Yuuri coughs pointedly. He knows that's a lie. Mari, if she wished, could create miniature tornados around Hasetsu. 

She laughs. It’s not really a laugh. “Good night, Yuuri.”

“Night,” he replies. “Try to get some sleep.” 

He tosses his phone onto the nightstand. What a strange thing to steal. A genealogy book of all things. Yuuri concentrates. He can think like a suspect, a witch. They would steal something like a genealogy book to run some scams with the help of necromancy. He’s briefly troubled by that thought until he slips down underneath the comforters and turns to the window to watch the city skylights. It’s still incredibly bright with sunlight streaming in between the skyscrapers and apartment buildings, but nevertheless, his dreamscape rises before his eyes. 

He’s on a beach. It reminds him of home, of Hasetsu. His throat tightens. He is the only soul upon the sands mixed in with dried seaweed and old seashells shattered and molded by the constant tides. His heart misses a beat at the grand house towering on the hill, high enough to avoid the waves. A minka-styled house, possibly built during the Heian period. That’s almost a thousand years ago. He’s reminded of the Itsukushima Shrine, located in Hatsukaichi, Hiroshima. His parents took him to see the ruins of World War II and stopped at the shrine along the way. 

He does not know why, but he climbs the steps up the hill. His shoes fail to keep the sand out, so he’s walking with dry particles between his toes. The traitorous shoes are placed in the genkan, and he wanders through the rooms, somehow knowing every single room in this home. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice murmurs, the owner’s arms throwing themselves around Yuuri’s neck and torso. The Japanese flows out of the other man as clearly as a native’s. “Did you have a nice walk, Yuuri?” 

“I did. The beach is nice.” 

“Mmm,” Victor agrees, letting Yuuri spin around. “The seagulls are lovely. We have the entire beach to ourselves. The nearest neighbor is five _ri_ away.” 

Yuuri has no idea what _ri_ means. But he guesses Victor is saying the neighbor is very far away. He couldn’t see any signs of another soul or home on the beach. He meets Victor’s eyes, unsurprised to see him unchanged by time. His gaze briefly flicks downwards, surprised to find the alpha in a floral patterned yukata. He's also dressed similarly with cherry blossoms dancing across the fabric. He's about to say something, to take control of his dream, when something hard slams into his back. 

"Ah, down, Makkachin!" Victor says, exasperated but cheerful by the eager chocolate-colored poodle. He lets go of the witch and lavishes kisses all over her face. "Makkachin, this is your new daddy, Yuuri! No jumping on him!" 

Death owns a dog?

Yuuri doesn’t have enough time to think about it. His heart skips a beat when the dog's eyes flash red. 

Correction: Death owns a hellhound. 

Now that does not surprise Yuuri. Death would definitely own a hellhound named Makkachin. 

Hellhounds have been around since forever. They're shadow creatures, capable of moving through the shadows from once to another like a doorway. Most of them are wild, hunting down people and animals alike in packs. Vicchan, who has been with the Katsuki family for centuries, is a tamed hellhound that would still be killed by hunters if they knew about him. Apparently, Makkachin is another tamed hellhound.

Yuuri briefly wonders if Makkachin is still out there in the real world. 

"A hellhound." 

"Yes." Victor glances up at the witch, his eyes partially hidden by his silver bangs. "Are you alright with that?" 

Yuuri nods. "My family has a hellhound." 

"Oh!" Excited, he suggests, "We should arrange a playdate! Makkachin rarely sees any of her kind anymore since we arrived in Japan. Most hellhounds don't play with her."

"I'll have to write a letter to my parents. Maybe we can visit them one day." 

"We will visit them one day," Victor corrects, rubbing Makkachin's stomach. At Yuuri's shocked expression, he adds, "I'm not that kind of a husband who forbids their spouse from visiting their family. Go write your letter, love. I'll get dinner ready, and tomorrow, we can go into town to send it off." 

Husband. The witch's heart skips a beat at that thought. 

Victor rises and sings to his hellhound. "Come on, Makkachin! Let's go eat some pork for dinner tonight!" He walks to the kitchen, the poodle barking happily behind him. 

Yuuri moves on autopilot. He's confused about the lack of mobile communication, but he does not question his dream too hard. He makes a few turns in his home until he finds a traditional little table with a dark brown brush and black ink stone. His body moves until he's seated, his hand reaching for the brush as he prepares a fresh sheet of an unfamiliar kind of paper.

He runs a finger down the surface, surprised by its coarseness. The brush begins to move. 

_Third Month_

Yuuri frowns at the Kanji. It doesn't look like his handwriting. It reminds him of someone who spent years of their life practicing their penmanship. Yuuri learned handwriting during his school years and never sought to improve the state of his awful penmanship. 

_Eikyu._

He doesn't understand that either. But he continues with the letter. It's what his hand wants even though he knows nothing of what to say. 

_Dear Mother,_

Yuuri blinks a few times at that. His palms sweat at the thought of a dream mother being alive. Would it be his mother who shows up or would it be the mother of the mysterious person whose memories are currently being tapped into by Yuuri? 

He continues the letter. He has to put trust in his dream magic that he would not be led astray. There's something important, relevant, to the case. He has to believe there is something there. 

_You told me you are worried about the foreigner I married. You shouldn't be. He's kind and gracious. He has welcomed me to every room in our home and vowed to cherish me forevermore. He's nothing like the nightmarish husband told in the stories by my classmates behind closed doors._

Yuuri pauses, the brush reaching for more ink. This is nothing like writing with a ballpoint pen. 

_He has a lovely dog named Makkachin who came back from his friend's care. If the guests at Yutopia are not many, I would be happy to bring her to Hasetsu to see Vicchan. She is like Vicchan, a poodle, in every way. I fear having too many guests at Yutopia may overexcite her._

Yuuri reaches for more ink, feeling vaguely annoyed by this constant flaw in calligraphy. 

_I hope to give Victor some children to hold. We've yet to be officially bonded in every way except legally. I shall uphold my duty both with great honor and pleasure._

The witch's face flushes. He tries to force his hand to change the last word with no success. He can't imagine saying any of this stuff to his parents today. They still don't know everything he's done in Detroit with Phichit. 

_Katsuki Yuuri_

The paper is given time to dry off. Then Yuuri raises his palm to his mouth, blowing it magically dry. Yuuri frowns, wondering if Victor's former spouse was a witch. He is not given much time to think about it when his legs suddenly lurches up and forces Yuuri into the bedroom. His fingers quickly unravel the yukata and change to a more informal kimono of red and black. 

Yuuri's legs are on the move again. 

"Done with the letter?" Victor asks, shouting unseen from the kitchen. Somehow, he has heard Yuuri's bare feet walking on the quiet wood floors. 

"Yes, do you need help?" 

"No!" Victor replies. "Sit down! I will properly serve you dinner." 

The witch's body moves again. Yuuri vaguely feels like a zombie or a possessed victim of some sorts. He does not question this too hard, however. Sitting cross-legged at a traditional Japanese dining table, Yuuri waits patiently for his husband. At some point, Makkachin emerges from the shadows and plops her head onto Yuuri's lap, lazily lounging on the floor. 

Yuuri indulges, lathering attention all over the hellhound. He learns her favorite spots. The stomach is what she loves, but she also enjoys face rubs. She also likes it when Yuuri laces his hands through her fur, smoothing it out. Victor takes good care of her, judging by the excellent state of her fur. He must be using some kind of shampoo to get her fur glow vibrantly. 

"Here we are!" Victor carries a steaming hot pot by his bare hands, unbothered by the extreme temperature. "I need to get some bowls and the rice! Don't eat before everyone else, Makka! It’s rude!" 

The hellhound rolls out her tongue, giving a mischievous side-eye at the alpha. She plants her head back into Yuuri's lap, as if taunting Victor of something. Specifically what, Yuuri doesn't know. 

Victor smiles indulgently at his poodle and strolls back into the kitchen. He quickly reemerges with a big plate and small bowls. He places the plate on the ground. "Makkachin," he chides, "the plate is for you. No begging for scraps!" 

Makkachin whimpers. 

Yuuri has to stifle a laugh when Victor literally melts before his eyes. He does laugh when Victor concedes, "Alright, Makkachin. Only a few scraps." 

The poodle happily barks, acceptingly. 

The alpha comes back again with a pot of rice and a bowl of fried pork layered with soy sauce. He taps his chin as he stares down at the table. "Oh, I forgot one more thing!" He hums back into the kitchen. 

Makkachin suddenly sits up, quickly snapping up a piece of pork. She drops back into Yuuri's lap with an _oomph!_ Blinking innocently at Victor, she watches him carry a plate of steaming Chinese broccoli and place it next to the pork. She does not appear to be too interested in the vegetables. 

Yuuri nearly jumps in surprise when Victor slaps his palm on his own forehead. 

"Tea! So careless," he mutters. "I can't believe I forgot three things." 

The witch stares at the table, surprised to see Victor in such a tizzy. He remembers the first time they met at the nice restaurant where Victor was undoubtedly smooth and aggressive in his pursuit of Yuuri. This dinner, in comparison, is nothing like that dinner in Madrid. Here, Victor is ten times more nervous and far more uncertain of himself. Yuuri doesn't know which version he likes better. 

Oh, who he is kidding?

Of course, he knows which one he likes better. This one, the one where he's not so perfect, where he's hilariously flawed with worries and concerns, where he’s undoubtedly in love with his spouse and enjoys the company of his dog, where he’s completely honest and true to himself, open to the world instead of dodging questions with omission and verbal sleight of hands. This is the version of Victor he likes the most. 

Upon setting the tea down, Victor takes a seat at the end of the rectangular table so he's directly at Yuuri's right. With a wooden rice paddle, he scoops up two bowls of rice. He hands one bowl to Yuuri and then curses himself. "Ah, the chopsticks!" 

That does it. The witch couldn't stop laughing when Victor has to scramble into the kitchen to grab the eating utensils. 

"Yuuri," the other man pouts. "Don't laugh at me! It's the first time I have to set up a formal dinner." 

"We can eat in the kitchen next time," Yuuri says, cracking up nonetheless. He gently pushes away Makkachin off his lap and then pulls the alpha in for a kiss. "But I enjoy your efforts. I truly appreciate how much work you put in to create a nice date." 

"Oh?" 

Yuuri is pleased with how pliant and red the alpha has become. Sneaking a peek as he takes the first bite out of the fried pork, he smiles as he finds the alpha still stunned and awestruck. He moans at the colorful explosion in his mouth. "Victor, the soy sauce is perfect!" 

"I bought the soy sauce from our neighbor," says Victor, still flushed from the kiss. "I think I left the pan on the fire for too long." 

The witch raises his index finger to Victor's mouth. "Shh, Victor. Everything is perfect. Do not worry, my love." 

They eat together in mutual but warm, companionable silence, the only sounds to be from Makkachin happily eating the pork on her plate. Yuuri is on his second bowl when Victor finally speaks. 

"I hope you are not disturbed by the nature of my work," Victor says, lowering an empty cup from his lips. "It's dark but necessary." 

"A reaper is part of the natural order," Yuuri replies, not sounding afraid at all. "What a world it would be if no one dies." 

"Yes. Humanity is quick to populate the world, especially if their numbers are not trimmed." He looks strangely relieved by Yuuri's acceptance. "Occasionally, there are souls who seek to cheat me." 

"They can?" 

Victor nods. "Vampires, for one, can avoid me for a long time. They are the closest beings to immortality." 

"They die eventually." 

"They always die an unnatural death. That is the curse of being immortal and being unable to be felled by old age." 

"But there are more ways?" 

The other man nods again. "Magic is the answer. Some of your people are quite clever. I made sure to close a loophole in magic to prevent the ancient witches from tying their life to an object." 

Yuuri leans in, fascinated. "But there were some?" 

"Yes. Time ensures that no object will be able to last forever. Think of the beach. Over the years, waves have worn down the rocks to what it is today. But the process still continues and it will constantly molded into a completely different shape in a hundred years. A witch could temporarily tie themselves to a rock or a jewelry, but strange circumstances will happen. Robbers are attracted to jewelry and rocks could disappear." 

Yuuri racks his brain. He doesn't remember this being a way to get immortality in the dark history of witches. But perhaps, this method has been forgotten over the years. "Are there any souls you must hunt for? I'm certain there are witches who fear Death so much they actively seek new ways to hide." 

"A few," the other man admits. "But unfortunately for them, I eventually come to collect." 

"How do they cheat?" 

"They steal the lives of their victims. I managed to severely reduce the efficiency of this trade, but I could not bring the numbers down completely. It used to be however the years the victims had left. Now it's merely a few days." 

"But there will be more victims." 

"That is the unfortunate side effect," Victor agrees. "But they leave a trail of bodies for the hunters to follow. They will be killed sooner rather than later. There is always a tradeoff." In this moment, Victor appears to be rather inhuman but also devastatingly beautiful, like a celestial being coming down from the Heavens to smite the unworthy. Anyone but Yuuri would be afraid upon seeing him right now. 

Yuuri, somewhat unnerved by this revelation, continues to eat his dinner. He chews quietly, trying to think of something to say. "Do you think it would be okay to bring my hellhound from Hasetsu? Maybe he could stay for a few nights." 

Victor lights up. "Yes! He can share a room with Makkachin. Makkachin has her own room, but it's a bit too big for her. I think she'll like some company. Won't you, Makkachin?" 

The poodle barks in clear agreement. 

The witch beams at them both. "It would be good for Vicchan to see new sights. As a hellhound, I believe once he's here, he can travel back and forth between our home and Hasetsu." 

He gasps. "I forgot hellhounds can shadow travel." 

"Well, that's not surprising." Pointedly, Yuuri glances down at the chopsticks tucked between his fingers. 

Victor dramatically falls over, laying down on the floor with his own chopsticks in hand. "Yuuri," he cries, "you've broken my heart!" 

The witch laughs, his chopsticks gently placed onto the table. Poking at the top of the alpha's head, he leans down to Victor's face and murmurs, "You silly husband." 

"Your silly husband." 

"My silly husband," Yuuri agrees. 

"As long as I'm yours, I can forgive this transgression." 

"As long as you're mine like I'm yours, I will tease you,” ardently declares Yuuri, patting Victor's hand. “You’ll be forgiving me forever.”

Victor smiles. “I can find those terms acceptable. As long as you can put up with my occasional forgetfulness.” 

“You mean the evidence of your aging?” 

It takes Yuuri a long time to get Victor to stop crying about that one. He has to spoon feed reassurances that Victor is indeed not aging and looks quite timeless. In fact, he looks younger every time Yuuri sees him. He shares an eye-roll with Makkachin, who briefly glances over and then continues scarfing down her dinner. She finishes before Victor's tantrum is over and manages to steal some more pork from Victor's own bowl without the alpha noticing via shadow travel. She goes back to her chewing. 

When they’re finished with dinner, Yuuri sends every single plate, pot, bowl, and chopstick flying back into the kitchen. 

The alpha protests, “But Yuuri, I can do it!” 

“It’s only a spell,” reassures Yuuri, smiling at the other man. “Besides, there are more important things to do other than dishes.” Crawling forward, the witch settles right on top of Victor, wrapping his arms around the other man’s neck. “Take me to bed, Victor.” 

In a move that surprises the witch, Victor simply teleports them right on top of the mattress. 

“Lazy,” Yuuri criticizes, falsely frowning at the other man. “Maybe I would like to swoon over your strength, Victor. Wow me by showing off.”

Purring, Victor unrepentantly promises, “Next time then.” He moves to straddle the witch underneath him. “Oh, what shall I do with you?”

Laying on his back, he flashes a grin. “You sure you can do anything, old man?” Yuuri yelps at the fierce, deft fingers tickling his sensitive sides. “Stop that! Victor, stop that! Victor!” he shrieks, making horrible, embarrassing sounds. 

“Never!” declares Victor. “Not until you apologize!” 

“Victor, please!”

“That’s not an apology!” 

A big ball of chocolate-colored fur suddenly pounces on Victor’s back, throwing the alpha off of Yuuri. Makkachin rolls her tongue out, barking at them both. 

“Makka, you traitor!” 

Yuuri is still laughing when the dreamscape fades away. He smiles at the faint impressions of Makkachin lingering in his memories. His happiness is cut short when he hears his phone ringing over and over again. 

It’s Yakov’s ringtone. He typically doesn’t call himself in. . .

The witch rubs his eyes, grabbing his phone. He notes the time. It’s three in the morning, surprisingly. But why would Yakov call at this time? 

Yuuri picks up. “Hello, sir.” 

“Katsuki,” gruffly says the boss. Without further ado or greeting, he orders, “I need you in France. We need to go to Siena, Italy through the international portals. We’ll be meeting with Mila along with the hunters at the factory.” 

Yuuri wants to say no. He can say no, and Yakov would be forced to take another person as a replacement. He wants to wallow in the dream and think about the messages the dream may be telling him. But he has a job to do. After a brief moment of hesitation, he says, “I’ll be ready in an hour.” At least, that will give him enough time to jot down his dream so he can analyze it later. 

“Fifty minutes,” Yakov says. Then he hangs up without another word. 

It’s far too early in the morning to wander through the customs with Yakov Feltsman in tow, Yuuri realizes. He starts a fresh pot of coffee and quickly pulls out his journal. He writes as many details he can remember, lingering on the name of Makkachin. He underlines it. He briefly wonders if she’s still alive today. But he doesn’t have time to think more about it when his coffee machine beeps at him. 

* * *

“Katsuki,” greets Yakov, holding out a hot cup of coffee to the witch. “This is for you.” He shuffles forward to give Yuuri some space in the long line at customs in France. Behind them, some people, disgruntled, reluctantly offer some room to the Japanese witch. 

“Sorry, sir,” Yuuri apologizes, accepting the cup from Starbucks. “Getting through the Spanish border took a bit longer than I expected.” 

“You had a reserved portal at three thirty,” Yakov notes, unamused. “Or did Georgi manage to screw that up?” 

“No,” the witch quickly says. “There were some tourists.”

Yakov grumbles something rude under his breath. 

Yuuri pretends to be deaf. 

The man in front of them, unfortunately not deaf, glares at them both. “Excusez-moi? Voulez-vous me le dire en face? Dites-le encore une fois.” 

Yuuri does not need a translation spell to know he’s upset. Very upset. 

“Excuse me, sir,” the witch says, pointing to the space ahead of them. “You should move up.”

Narrowing his eyes, he picks up his suitcases and shuffles forward a few feet. He’s still not any less angry than before. He loudly mutters, “Les Américains. Ce sont absolument les pires. Idiots. J'espère que l'un d'eux tombera d'une falaise.” 

The witch glances up, silently praying to anything out there that he does not decide to curse Yakov somewhat. He’s not religious, but he has to hope there’s something out there who will take mercy on him today. That being said, though it is obnoxious to go through customs with Yakov, he does not wish for his boss to be turned into a toad. The paperwork he’ll have to fill out will put his hands out of commission for days. Yes. Both hands.

Yuuri glances back up, staring at the long line ahead of them. The customs agent goes through approximately one person per every five minutes. And there are twenty people ahead of them in a zig-zagged line formed by rope barriers. 

He has to hope Yakov doesn’t annoy a diplomat again like last time. Diplomats can’t be officially angry, but they can most certainly express their feelings in roundabout ways. It has never ended happily for anyone, and most certainly, it has not ended well for Yuuri, who ended up having to apologize solely through facial expressions. Yakov, however, remained more stubborn than a mule. 

The witch ends up pulling out his phone and reading through group messages. It makes time move a bit faster, but it’s perhaps falling half-asleep where he stands the one thing that makes time move truly the fastest. 

“Yuuri?” says Phichit, snapping his fingers obnoxiously. “Yuuri?”

“I’m awake,” mumbles the witch. He’s liberally breathing in coffee aroma and hoping it would super-charge his poor state of mind. Staring at a 70s-circa blueprint of an old factory building is not helping. 

Sitting in front of a large computer monitor, Yakov, too awake for a man his age, barks out orders through the comms. “Mila, I need you to sweep the perimeter again.”

“On it. But I want to remind you that sunrise is coming in about thirty minutes.” 

“I know,” the boss replies. “Ji?”

“I got movement on the eastside second story window,” Guang Hong chimes in. “I finished drawing a devil's trap on the northeast entrance. Salt line is coming along, and Phichit’s camouflage spell is holding.”

“Were you seen?” 

“I don’t believe so.” 

Yakov turns towards Phichit, raising a hairless eyebrow. 

“I don’t think it was broken,” says the other witch, stopping his incessant finger snaps in front of Yuuri’s face for a brief moment. “I would have felt it if Guang Hong was seen through the spell.” 

“Katsuki,” gruffly says Yakov, his voice grating and deep. “Are you awake yet?”

“Throw him at the demons. That’ll wake him up really fast,” suggests Phichit, a complete traitor. “I think he didn’t sleep well last night due to magical reasonings. Something like dream magic. Perhaps he used too much of it and saw something important.”

Yakov grunts, not replying to that. He hits something on the computer and speaks directly into the microphone. “Mila, I want you to be stationed at the west entrance.” 

“Yes, sir. My poor fake baby needs some attention and love. I’ll be under the tree.” 

Yuuri is nearly taken aback at that until he remembers Phichit telling him Mila’s disguise as a mother jogging with a baby stroller. He would be honestly worried about the baby under Mila’s care. Despite being a vampire, Mila wouldn’t eat it. But she might teach it horrible, corrupt things babies and young children should not know. Like twerking. 

“Crispino, come in.” 

The radio cracks. “Sir?” 

“Your status?”

“Quiet. Nothing to see so far,” Mickey reports. 

“Three heat signatures according to infrared,” Georgi cuts in, the radio blaring to life again. “Another thing, sir. Boulet is in your office. He’s adamant about talking to you again.” 

Yakov grimaces. “Tell him I’m busy.” 

“I did, sir. He told me he’ll wait as long as he has to.”

“Then he’ll have to wait all day.” 

“Very well, sir,” replies Georgi. “I’ll pass forward that message.” 

Yakov is quick to hit a button on the keyboard. "Do not tell him that." Eyes twitching, he tensely corrects, "Tell him I'll be out of the office all day." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Leo, are you done with trapping the south exit?" 

"Almost." 

"Sir, it's twenty-five minutes until sunrise." 

"I know, Mila," growls Yakov. "You've been telling me that every five minutes." He turns to the witches in the surveillance van. "Are you two finally ready?"

Yuuri nods, trying to pull himself together. "Yes, sir." 

Phichit nods, too. 

The boss assesses them, finding them in acceptable condition. "Ji, I need you to meet with the witches at the north entrance. Everyone else, stay put and watch your position." 

Yuuri shoves in an earbud and walks with Phichit down the street. He easily finds the Chinese hunter huddled behind a fire hydrant, pretending to be struggling with a shoe lace as he keeps an eye on the nearby windows. 

They creep their way to the door at the north side of the factory. According to the blueprints, it opens directly into the storage room and not the main factory floor. It should allow them to sneak in unnoticed by the demons. 

Phichit snaps his finger. The door creaks open without another protesting. 

The trip move into the factory. Guang Hong slips on night vision goggles. Phichit pulls out Arthur to help him through the darkness. Yuuri silently casts a spell for night vision. 

Yuuri's hands are deep into the pockets of his coat as he briefly glances over walls upon walls of graffiti. Piles of dusty shoeboxes sit in the corner, untouched by anyone in recent times. Someone has left a nice collection of beer caps all over the cracked floor. It's practically a hazard, and the Interpol agents step slowly to avoid creating unnecessary noise. 

Georgi's voice cracks in. "I have three heat signatures on the southeast side. They appear to be on the second floor."

Southeast, second floor. That means it's the offices overlooking the factory. It'll be difficult for them to make it upstairs without being seen. They have to walk through the factory floor and in between whatever abandoned machines there are to reach the stairs on the south side of the building. 

Unless. 

"Teleport," Yuuri breathes. 

"Negative," Yakov orders through the comms. "You might accidentally teleport into the wrong room and alert the suspects. Make your way to the stairs. Refresh your camouflage spell." 

Phichit mutters a word under his breath. Yuuri feels something like water running over his skin. 

Phichit's camouflage spell, reactivating. 

Three pairs of eyes look in three different directions. Guang Hong stares forward while Yuuri and Phichit look off at their sides. Yuuri briefly gaze at the sad remains of what was once a thriving business. There are rubber soles, hardened and blackened over the decades. Laces are tossed carelessly over the tables, and cigarette butts have found themselves in the sewing machines. 

Then they are at the foot of the stairs. Every creak and groan they accidentally cause makes Yuuri want to _die._ He has no idea how none of the demons have heard a thing. 

"Stop. They're twenty feet in front of you. Katsuki, I need a bomb." 

Yuuri's hand automatically sinks deeper into his pocket, reaching for a paper bomb. It's nonlethal, but packs quite a bang. Literally. He rolls the origami ball over to the office. One, two, three, four seconds. Shredded paper flies in every direction. There’s screaming from the demons as Yuuri rushes and grabs the nearest one. A woman. With the element of surprise on his side, he grabs her wrists and snaps handcuffs on her without missing a beat. 

“Sleep,” whispers Phichit, blowing sleeping powder in one demon’s face from his palm. 

The demon falls over a desk and lands on the rotten carpet. 

Guang Hong is the slowest, kicking the demon’s shoulder with a flying back kick. Yuuri is impressed by his form as he knocks his own head against the demon’s chin without missing a beat. “Hah,” the hunter screams. 

“Whoa, who the hell are you people?” screams a familiar voice. 

Guang Hong stops his assault, clearly recognizing the voice. “JJ Leroy?” 

“Wait, is that you, Agent Ji?” 

Letting go of his arrestee, Yuuri reaches into his coat and pulls out an inactive crystal. “Witchlight coming on in three, two, one. . .” He generously gives Guang Hong another second to pull off his night vision goggles while he silently switches off his own night vision spell. 

The office is suddenly flooded with magical light emitting from the crystal in Yuuri’s hand. There is indeed a familiar man standing right by the window. JJ Leroy with his undercut stands with his fisticuffs out. A woman shrieks at the dirty floor and the crawling of rats. The third person is still out cold with his head face down on the floor, breathing in whatever fumes the carpet is giving off. 

“What is going on?” blares Yakov, clearly upset with the lack of vision. “Someone tell me what is going on.” 

“Sir, JJ Leroy and his camera crew are here,” Yuuri informs. 

“I can’t believe this,” mutters Yakov, sounding unaware he’s still on the comms. He sounds as if he’s just discovered most of his hair has abandoned him.

* * *

“That factory has been abandoned by the demons a long time ago,” concludes Guang Hong, who winces as he glances up from his report. 

“Yeah,” agrees JJ. “They have the habit of using abandoned spaces like old businesses, factories, apartment buildings. Then once they’re done with it, they leave. We found four places, and we’re always one step behind them.” Frustration seeps into his words, but he keeps his cool at the conference table. 

“Don’t you have a problem with investigating demons? Some sort of contract?” asks Mickey, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the trio they picked up from the factory. 

Glancing in between her boyfriend and Mickey, Isabella Yang answers, “Not exactly. We can’t video them, but we can still hunt them. That’s actually what we were doing. Hunting, because the hunter community has called in all possible resources to slow the progress of the Apocalypse. We had to shut down the show and fire most of our camera crew. Hikaru is our old cameraman.” 

A vein in Yakov’s forehead ticks. 

Hikaru tugs his collar away to reveal the anti-possession tattoo on his chest. “I was their old cameraman, but things happen.” He releases his shirt, the tattoo hidden once again. 

“But the three of you alone are hunting demons?”

“We’re hunting Astaroth, but we’ll kill any demon we come across.”

Isabella coughs, pointedly staring at her boyfriend. 

“We’ll try to purge them first before killing any demons,” JJ corrects. “And no, we’re actually a team of four. Our fourth person was supposed to be our lookout, but then she disappeared for a. . . Isabella, where did she go?” 

“Ballet show last night,” answers Hikaru, glumly staring at each Interpol agent. “Would have been nice if she was there.” 

“Hikaru, she was our publicist for the show. She’s not really one for fighting.” Isabella’s fingers fidget with her nails. 

The door opens. Mila sticks her head in. She says, “We have someone who is looking for them, Yakov.” 

“A woman?” Yakov inquires.

“Yes.” 

“Send her in then.” 

Yuuri cranes his head to see the next person coming in through the doorway. She’s somewhat short. Petite but also Asian. Yuuri wants to put her age around early forties, but he’s not quite certain. Her brown eyes flit from person to person around the conference room. Her gaze lingers on Yuuri for a second longer than it should have. He’s not sure why, but he does not like what she finds when she looks at him. 

She reaches for the closest person, who happens to be Mickey. Shaking his hand forcibly and vigorously in spite of the mild expression of horror expressed by the werewolf, she introduces herself. “Minako Okukawa, publicist.” 


	6. Enoch II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love Me by Yiruma

Yuuri slips out of the conference room Yakov commandeered from a nearby Italian hotel. He notices his stalker through the clean reflection of a glass window. With a strained smile, he pivots and greets his friend. “Hey, Phichit.” 

“What’s up with you?” Phichit asks, cutting straight to the point. It’s unlike Phichit, so Yuuri assumes that the crappy feeling he’s suffering under must have been evident in his every expression. “I don’t think it was solely dream magic that took a bite out of you, but Yakov didn’t believe it and sent you into that factory.” 

“You let me go in anyway?” 

Phichit raises an eyebrow. "What's the one physical condition coroners look at to determine whether or not the deceased was a witch?" 

“Situs inversus.”

The other witch nods. “You’re sleepy, but it’s not like we didn’t attack a killer vampire coven while drunk ten years ago,” Phichit points out. “Besides, I was with you. I had your back. If you were going in alone, I would have told Yakov something like. . . You were cursed.” He pauses. "So spill. What has gotten you like this?" 

Yuuri glances up and down the hall. No one else is paying attention. "Someone killed Mom yesterday." 

Phichit's mouth gapes, perfectly so like a goldfish in an aquarium. "What? Dude, there are so many things I want to say and I don't even know where to start. First, I'm really sorry to hear that. But second, what are you doing here? You should have taken a day off. At least one. Preferably a week. Two weeks." 

"I would rather be at work, thinking about the cases rather than the circumstances of Mom's. . ." He can't even finish his sentence. 

The other witch softens. "Dude, we gotta work on your communication skills. I would have never approved of you going into that factory earlier today." 

Yuuri sighs, wanting this conversation to be over like two minutes ago. "I also met up with our unofficial suspect yesterday." 

"Nice segue, but I'm so bringing it up again later. You're not avoiding me forever." He folds his arms. “Alright. Tell me about the progress on your unofficial investigation.” Arthur pokes out from his collar, glaring at Yuuri. 

Yuuri doesn’t know if he’s trying to play bad cop or good cop to Phichit. The witch drops his voice into a whisper. "You can't share this with anyone." 

"Why?" Phichit frowns. 

The witch glances around, seeing nobody. "His job is to collect souls." 

"What?" He sputters, narrowing his eyes. "What do you mean collect?" 

"No, think of the Grim Reaper. That character kids like dressing up as on Halloween." Yuuri pauses. With emphasis, he stresses,  _ "He's literally that Grim Reaper."  _

“But the Grim Reaper is like a myth. A myth-myth.” 

“Werewolves, vampires, and demons were all once myths,” the witch points out, echoing what Chris said a long time ago. “What makes the Grim Reaper any different?”

A pause. “So does he carry a scythe?” 

Yuuri stares at Phichit. “How am I supposed to know that?”

“Typically, you would see it, right? Like he would be holding one, right?” Phichit, with his hands, mimics the swinging motions of a scythe. 

Almost rolling his eyes, he shakes his head. “I think we should take the general gist of the Grim Reaper and not the entire legend. I don’t think he has a black coat with a hood and goes around at midnight to scare people from behind. Basically, he collects dead people.” 

"For certain?" 

Yuuri nods. "He showed me a few deaths, and then I went looking for announcements of people's passing. I have no reason to believe he was tricking me." 

"Alright. Alright. But if you somehow go off on a deep end, I'm going to hunt that Grim Reaper down to the ends of the earth. You can take that as a promise." 

He sighs. "Phichit. . ." 

"Yuuri," his best friend mimics, perfect in tone and pitch. 

“You want coffee?” he asks, cutting into whatever words Phichit wants to say next. He briskly walks off and loudly says, “I’m getting everyone some coffee. Good coffee. Not the cheap hotel coffee.”

Phichit snickers. “I’ll corner you one day!” 

It takes Google a few minutes to load up a coffee house that isn’t ridiculously cheap and sugary. Yuuri decides to take a walk down the street, wanting a little more time with his own thoughts. Besides, he would rather not risk teleporting there and then accidentally landing into a tree. Or inside a tree. Teleportation spells work best when the caster has visited the destination before. 

He sighs at the large gaggle of students and kids taking advantage of the free wireless internet offered by the cafe. It'll be awhile before he can get some decent coffee. 

In Italian, he orders, "Two decaf, one black, two iced coffees with half sugar, one iced tea, and one espresso. All in large cups, to-go." He shoves down the urge to die when someone groans behind him at the size of Yuuri's order. It's not like Yuuri wants to order this much coffee either. 

Once he slashes his credit card through the machine, he frowns at his pockets mournfully. Hopefully, the barista will forgive him for not having any euros. He shoves American dollar bills into the tip jar. Then he stands off, allowing the next person to order. 

"Katsuki, isn't it?" says a feminine voice, her voice startlingly flawed with a light Japanese accent. It's Minako, the publicist for JJ and his show. She's sitting at the table, no coffee or drink in sight. 

Yuuri blinks, wondering if she was there before he came into the coffee shop. Moving closer to her table, he gestures to the empty seat on the opposite side of the table. "May I?" 

"Please. JJ and his friends have the taste for this horrible soda pop drinks. This is one of the best coffee shops in this city. Made from real coffee beans." 

"You've been here before?" 

Minako nods, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Her posture is straight, flawlessly so as if she's been through some serious etiquette classes. Yet, brief whiffs of her scent suggest alpha. "I wasn't always a publicist working for JJ. Once upon a time, I was a ballet dancer. Won a few awards, but an injury took me out. My leg was never the same since. There was a fellow ballerina who took pity on me. Gave me a job as her publicist. I never looked back." 

"But this coffee shop?" 

She smiles. "Lilia took me here once. We spent an entire morning here. Lots of fond memories." 

He has no idea who Lilia is, but he nods with interest anyway. "JJ's show has been canceled until later notice." 

"You wonder why I stick around?" Minako looks at the coffee cup being set in front of her and flashes a grateful smile at the barista, slipping her ten euros. "Grazie." To Yuuri, she answers, "I feel something for them. I was a publicist for thirty years." 

Yuuri blinks at that. She doesn't look a day over thirty, and she can't possibly have genes that good. She's unaffected by sunlight, and she does not feel like a witch. 

"I've been with JJ and his show for the last six years. Ever since he was sixteen. In a way, I see him and his crew like my children. They're the last clients I will ever have." 

"What's that like? Being their publicist?" 

She laughs, taking a sip out of her cup. She places it back, perfectly so on the saucer. "Maddening at times. Frustrating, but never boring. There's always something going on, something to hide away from the press. One time, they created some property damages while blackout drunk and that caused a major migraine." She pauses, a twinkle in her eye. "I know you work for Interpol, but I hope you don't sell that story to the gossip sites." 

Yuuri forces a chuckle. "If I have to talk to a reporter, it would be too soon." 

"Wise words." 

"Have I seen you before?" Yuuri says, feeling a sudden tap on his shoulder. He nods in thanks at the barista bringing him two coffee carriers. 

Minako raises an eyebrow, bringing the cup to her lips again. "I know I've seen you before." 

His heart skips a beat. "You have?" 

She hesitates. "Yeah, when JJ accidentally summoned you instead of a demon. We still have that day on video." She shakes her head in mirth. "Your face when you had holy water thrown at you!" 

Yuuri forces his lips to curve upwards. He's not sure why, but he doesn't feel satisfied by her answer. But he decides not to push it for today. He lifts his coffee carriers and says, "Sorry, I have to cut our conversation short. I have to deliver coffee to my coworkers." 

"Of course. I hope they enjoy it." 

Standing up, the witch makes an attempt at waving. "Have a nice day." 

Once outside, he walks a few steps and then looks through the window for Minako. He frowns when he sees nothing but a steaming coffee cup and a ten euro on the wooden table. Minako is nowhere to be seen.

* * *

"Facials came back," says Guang Hong, typing rapidly at his makeshift desk. His headset is crooked. He suddenly turns and says into a microphone, "Sara is still processing the factory. She's not available at the moment." 

"What's the thing about the facials?" 

"Soul-eater case." The Chinese hunter turns his monitor around, showing three grainy surveillance photos. "That one was in Germany, this one in Luxembourg, and that one in France. These are the ones that were picked up by the software, and it wasn't certain it was the same person until I just confirmed it." 

Yuuei glances up from his reports. From his eyes, all three photos don't look the same at the first glance. Different color hair, unique colors of the eye, slightly different jaw structure, different skin tones. He frowns, feeling something prick at the back of his head. Has he seen this man before? 

"Wait, those are the same dude?" Phichit voices. 

“Yes, astonishingly so.” Guang Hong patiently explains, running his finger around the suspect’s face. “Look, identical ears.”

Yuuri has to suspend his disbelief on that one. He’s not sure how one person’s ears is different from the others out there in the world. He folds his arms over his chest and says, “You got to have better evidence than that.” He can just imagine it.  _ Yes, Your Honor, we identified our suspect based on the similarities of his ears.  _

“It does get better,” Guang Hong defends, jabbing his finger at the eyes. “He’s great at eyeliner and a whiz at makeup, but he can’t disguise the true shape of his eyes. Jaw’s the same story, and he can’t successfully fake cheekbones when he’s got none.” 

“I have to agree with Guang Hong,” Phichit cuts in. “He really has ugly cheekbones. No amount of contour is going to disguise that.” 

Yuuri squints, unable to discern anything about the cheekbones. “How about the names he used while getting through the borders?”

“Fake, fake, fake,” chants the hunter. “It could be a coincidence he’s following the route of our suspect, but I don’t think it is. Three times? Super unlikely. I still haven’t found him getting through the other borders, though.” 

“You don’t have to. Three is enough. Did you see any signs of him leaving Germany?” Yuuri asks, moving closer to the image. 

“Uh, no, but Germany has a lot of surveillance camera footage. It’ll take forever for the software to scan every single photo. There are over one hundred fifty thousand people going through Frankfurt Airport alone. Can you imagine how many people are crossing borders, riding through the trains, and leaving by cars every day?” 

Probably millions. 

"You think you can get his real face underneath all that makeup?" Yuuri asks. 

Guang Hong looks offended. "I can get a picture of him naked if I tried hard enough. Makeup is not that difficult. I'll have to use the software to extrapolate his facial depth, but I can get it ready in about an hour, assuming no interruptions and distractions." He pointedly turns back to his monitor. 

"Alright, in the meanwhile, we got a date with a Russian politician and his fake son," says Phichit. "And Yuuri, you're coming with me. For certain." 

"I should check with Mila if she needs translation help. . ." 

"No, Yuuri."

* * *

Hailing a taxi to have it drive through St. Petersburg isn't exactly what Yuuri was expecting to do today. Phichit chats amicably with the taxi driver, who clearly has catered to many tourists of different nationalities and speaks in broken English. 

"Da, da," agrees Boris the taxi driver and werewolf. "I like witches. Helped love, you know. My wife, she a vampire." 

Yuuri keeps his mouth shut. He's surprised by a werewolf-vampire marriage, and he really has to stop himself from blurting out the painful ending they always have. The vampire, almost always, outlive the spouse. 

Phichit sits up with interest. "They gave you a hexbag to help you?" 

He laughs. "Nyet. Sweet tea! Keep awake at night." 

The other witch smiles. "That's really nice of them." He pauses. "So, Boris, do you drive a lot of tourists around?" 

"Da," he confirms. "Germans, French, Jews, I drive them all. Americans. The Chinese, too. You friend, Chinese?" 

"No, Japanese. I'm Thai." 

"Japanese is good. Very neat. Clean. But those Chinese tourists," he sighs, clicking his tongue in disappointment. "No tips. Litter everywhere, trash everywhere, no. . . What is that word?" 

"Empathy?" Phichit suggests. 

"Nyet, not right." He ponders in thought as he makes a right turn. "Respect, da. Respect. No respect. Americans, still tip." 

The witch takes great consideration at his words. "Boris, do you have thoughts about Mr. Petrovich?" 

Flashing a grin through his black-grey beard, he says to the rearview mirror, "Oh, can't complain." 

"Anything good to say?" 

He thinks for a moment. "Nyet. Nothing." 

To Yuuri, it sounds like a Yakov answer to a question that is fishing for something provocative. Yakov always knows better than to engage and will always speak in noncommittal sentences. Neutral turn of phrase. 

The taxi driver slows down, surprisingly calm despite a fancy town car nearly T-boning them. Without any accidents, he leaves the engine running in front of a grand apartment building. "Here. Rubles or credit card?" 

"Do you accept euros?" Phichit pipes up, waving a fifty euro. 

Eagerly taking the bill, he inhales its scent and nods approvingly. He grins. "Da. Money is money." 

"Keep the change." 

The taxi driver sees them off. "Dasvidaniya," he calls cheerfully before speeding off back into the heart of St. Petersburg. 

"So. Sergei Petrovich, father of Ivan Petrovich and supposed antichrist and destroyer of the world. Close friend to the Russian president," Phichit recaps. He slips on a translation spell and says to the awaiting doorman some Russian. 

Yuuri subtly pulls his on. 

"We have an appointment with Mr. Petrovich," Phichit coolly says. 

"Name please?" The doorman does not look friendly. He has a shoulder holster underneath his suit jacket, suggesting he's armed to the teeth. 

Phichit tells him. 

"And his?" 

"Yuuri Katsuki." 

The doorman picks up his landline and begins to dial. "Hello? Mr. Petrovich? Sorry to bother you, sir. We have a Phichit Chulanont and Yuuri Katsuki waiting downstairs to see you. Yes, I'll make sure to send them up." He places the phone back down and reaches under his desk for a metal tray. "Weapons." 

Phichit is clearly ready for this line of interrogation, because he takes out a fancy ceremonial dagger he has never used from his pocket. He casually turns to the other witch with an eyebrow. "Yuuri?" 

Yuuri reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a vampire stake he packed weeks ago. It's the best he can do. All the other weapons are magical spells, and it's obvious the doorman doesn't think they're witches. Phichit somehow made an appointment to see a Russian president's adviser and friend under false pretenses. Yuuri is tagging along for a ride; Yuuri has to follow Phichit's lead. 

"Head to the elevator. Twelfth floor." 

They do, leaving the two weapons behind. 

Yuuri slips off the translation spell. "Phichit, how did we get an appointment?" 

"Relax," says Phichit in English. "He knows we're from Interpol." 

The witch freezes. "He does?" And he let them come into his apartment anyway? 

They reach the twelfth floor and come to a hallway. One direction leads to the stairs. The other leads to a door simply labeled as  _ 1201\.  _ The door is slightly ajar. 

They slowly make their approach, words not needed between the two witches. Yuuri's hands slips deeper into his pockets, searching for something usable. His left fingers close around an origami bird with claws. It's a decent weapon. 

Phichit pushes the door open slowly. The very smell of the apartment hits them, the scent of cleaning supplies, of chlorine like a swimming pool. They peek around the corner to find the kitchen and one middle-aged man standing at the counter with coffee. 

He speaks in accented English. "How can I have the pleasure of assisting Interpol today?" 

"We're from the supernatural department of Interpol. Can we sit down somewhere more comfortable?" 

"Sure." He leads them to a circular breakfast table with four chairs. "Supernatural department?" 

Neither of the witches say anything. 

Phichit and Mr. Petrovich takes opposite sides while Yuuri squeezes in between, vaguely feeling like an unwilling mediator. 

"What is this visit about?" 

"Your son," Phichit answers. "Were you there at his birth?" 

"My son?" It's clear he did not expect this conversation subject. "You're here for my son?" 

"Mr. Petrovich, please answer the question." 

"I, uh," he stumbles, scratching at his head. "Yulia, my girlfriend, she was pregnant with Ivan. She was in the hospital for a day, in labor. I almost didn't go until the last hour possible. When I arrived, Ivan was born. I held him. Not good at holding him. Never was. He's small. So small. While holding him I talked to the nurse, and he told me Yulia has passed. I couldn't even imagine this was my reality. A son, dead mother, and me. I said some words I shouldn't have to the nurse, wishing I can throw him into the American foster system. But it was my son, my blood." 

"Did you take him home with you? 

"No, he was born premature. He had to stay at the hospital for a few more weeks under their care. I made plans. I briefly considered sending him to adoption. In the end, I hired a nanny who took care of his every need." 

Yuuri remembers what Chris said about the demon watching over the antichrist. The nanny. Abaddon. He stiffens and carefully asks, "Do you still employ your nanny?" 

"Yes, she's very good. Why?" 

Phichit ignores that. "Where is she now?" 

"She's picking up my son from school." Mr. Petrovich quickly puts it together. "Do you think she's some kind of supernatural creature? Are you hunting her?" 

Yuuri cuts in. "Mr. Petrovich, is there anything off about your son?" 

"Off? There's nothing off about him!" 

Yuuri exchanges a quick glance with Phichit. It's clear they're losing him. He's becoming far less receptive to their interrogation. He's about to say something when a knock echoes through the apartment. 

A sweet feminine voice calls out, "Mr. Petrovich, we're home." 

Yuuri's hand finds the bird again. 

"She's not dangerous," says Mr. Petrovich, glaring at them both. "She's my son's caretaker." In a louder voice, he replies to the demon, "Yelena, why don't you take my son to the park?" 

The footsteps come closer. The sound of high heels meticulously clack against the wood floor. A dark figure in a black military-style coat emerges from the corner. Behind her stands a blonde teenager. She's remarkably beautiful in a way that reminds Yuuri of the old movies starring classically featured actresses with bold red lipstick. 

From the fond way Mr. Petrovich looks at her, it's clear she's more than just an employee to him. That's why he's cagey. 

Her dark eyes are not on Mr. Petrovich. They're on the two witches sitting in the room. With a curve of her lips, she sneers, "Witches." 

"You are Yelena," Yuuri says, his heart beat surprisingly calm and collected. "Also known as Abaddon?" 

Her sneer turns even uglier. With a wave of her hand, Mr. Petrovich is magically slammed into the wall. He slumps down, unconscious for a moment. 

Yuuri doesn't waste another second. Kicking his chair back, he pulls out the paper bird from his pocket and yells, "Attack!" 

The white origami expands in size. It takes flight and begins pecking at the demon in sharp swoops with its claw and beak. It smacks her in the face with its powerful wings. She shrieks in outrage, only slowed down momentarily. 

Phichit is casting some sort of water spell, designed to whip her from the distance. He and the paper goose duel her, the water whip striking her face while the goose bravely flies around the water spell to claw at her neck. 

Yuuri is about to help Phichit when he suddenly screams in surprise. He struggles with the one hundred pound teenager on his back. "I don't want to hurt you, Ivan." 

In a burst of English, he yells, "Good! Cause I want to hurt you!" 

For a child, he's quite strong as he rakes his nails down Yuuri's neck. He's momentarily distracted by the demon seizing the bird and throwing it straight into Phichit's water spell. The goose sags with water, falling to the floor with its magic lost. 

Yuuri grits his teeth, reaching for the teenager's hands and then throwing him off his back. He shouts at Phichit, "Handle Ivan!" 

"What? The kid?" But Phichit moves nonetheless, reaching into his pocket as he smoothly slides feet-first across the wood floor like a baseball player trying to hit the home run plate. Except this plate happens to be Ivan's face. 

Sparks dance around his fists. Rising to full height, Yuuri faces the demon alone. 

"Witches are so pathetic," she says, tossing her wet braid over her shoulder. 

It's also the last thing she will ever say. 

Drawing from his very core, Yuuri summons enough magic to vaporize and throws his hands forward. A bright blue stream of magic blasts forward, hitting the demon dead center. He's strangely thinking of Japan, of grief, instead of anger as she melts away into nothing but a pile of smoking ashes in a black coat and shoes. 

Yuuri stops the flow of magic, feeling unsteady on his own feet. 

"Whoa!" Phichit grabs him by the arm. "Kid is out cold, but you need to nap or something, Yuuri." 

"How did you do it?" Yuuri murmurs. 

"I always keep sleeping powder in my sleeves. As Ciao Ciao suggested. I made a pocket dimension in the skin of my wrist last year with a trick spell that allows only me to access it with a certain pass phrase." 

"Does it hurt?" Yuuri mumbles. 

"What?" 

"Making a pocket dimension?" 

"No." Phichit spies the parlour and drags Yuuri to the expensive sofa. "Here, take a nap here. I got everything else covered." 

Yuuri really shouldn't have fallen asleep. But as if he got knocked out by Phichit's sleeping powder, he feels darkness rising up around him. 

He doesn't know where he is. 

It's dark, it's wet, and when he opens his mouth, he hears a small child crying in the distance. But he can't see anything, but he knows he's being wrapped around and carried in someone's arms. He breathes in between cries, feeling as if suffering through a severe anxiety attack. There's a hint of salt in the air, reminding Yuuri of Hasetsu. 

"It's okay, Yuuri. It will be okay," reassures Mari. "It'll be alright." 

"Yuuri, wake up. Wake up." Phichit vigorously shakes the witch awake. 

Yuuri blinks, surprised to find himself in a hotel room. Bleary, he raises his head and reaches for his glasses on the nightstand. "Where are we?" 

"Still in St. Petersburg," Phichit says, strolling over to the armchair and taking advantage of the minibar by grabbing the free Russian energy bars. "I didn't want to bring you back to France, so I brought you here. You slept for two hours." 

"Two hours?" Yuuri groans. 

In a rush, Phichit continues, "After you passed out, Mr. Petrovich came to and he threatened to file a complaint about unauthorized killing of a supernatural creature. Too bad for him, it was a demon and Interpol and its funders really don't like demons, so his case doesn't hold much water. He backed down completely after Yakov yelled at him in Russian for ten minutes over the phone. It was great." 

"And the son?" 

“Shaken. Not sure if he has any egotistical, megalomaniacal ideals. He was quiet after the Russian Interpol agent explained to him about the nanny. I couldn't figure out if he knew the nanny was a demon or didn't know. Before this." 

"I wager he did," Yuuri darkly says. He remembers the brief pain flaring up around his neck as he tried to draw blood with his nails. He remembers his words. 

_ Cause I want to hurt you.  _

That's not typical sixteen year old behavior. Yuuri was sixteen once, and he never had any urge to hurt anyone except for maybe his sister for stealing his katsudon. But other than that, he was not violent as a teenager. 

"I agree that kid should be in therapy. Spending time around the demon who has been declared the Destroyer with a capital D can't be good for anyone's mental health." Phichit polishes off the last of the energy bar. "Since you're awake and not dead and the demon has been taken care of, I guess we're going back to France?" 

"You go," Yuuri tells him. 

"Huh?" 

"I'm going directly to Japan. Taking the rest of the day off after I call Human Resources."

* * *

Returning to Japan after all those years is a surreal experience. He teleports home, his nerves a heavy weight at the bottom of his stomach. He lets himself in through the front door, placing the shoes in their proper places. 

"I'm home," he quietly calls out. 

Here, this is where his mom would be the first to say hello back. Here, this is where she would invite him to relax and eat. She always tells him to eat as soon as he arrives. 

Mari, dressed in a black kimono, suddenly appears. Her eyes are red, and her makeup is smeared. "She's at the temple. They're preparing her for. . ." 

Yuuri nods, his throat tight. He's unable to find the correct words to say. Guilt crawls up his chest. He should have been here. He should have helped Mari with the funeral arrangements. He should have done so much more. 

"Stop thinking, son. I can hear you from here," says his father, partially hidden by the shadows. "It's not your fault." 

Yuuri stands awkwardly, unsure of himself. He finally manages some words. "What can I do?" 

"Find Vicchan and bring him to the funeral tomorrow," says Mari. "We haven't seen him since. . . It happened. I've been looking at all the usual places, but I don't have enough time to scour the hiking trails or the other places we've visited that I've forgotten." 

The witch nods, relieved. "I can do that." With purpose, he turns around and puts his shoes back on. 

Once Yuuri has exhausted the familiar options of the park and Hasetsu Castle with no result, he ends up knocking on the neighbor's door to borrow their car so he can visit the potential places Vicchan might be. He tries the local dog groomer and pet shelter with no success. 

It's becoming quite dark and chilly as he tries the southern beaches of Hasetsu. Vicchan, Mari, and Yuuri once have been here in their childhoods, but he doesn't know if Vicchan still remembers this place. 

"Vicchan," he yells against the roaring of the beach. There is no response from anyone or anything, just the crashing of the waves. 

Yuuri watches as the sky turns dark. For the first time, he feels tendrils of fear that something incredibly bad has happened to Vicchan. Like a hunter capturing him. He quickly reminds him that Vicchan is still eating food out of the doggy bowl Mari left out. He's simply refusing to see anyone. 

Wrapping his black coat tighter around himself, he heads back to the truck. He sits idly in the parking lot, the light dimming around him. He texts the neighbor an update on Vicchan. 

_ No sign of him at all.  _

The sixty-four year old replies,  _ keep trying. I won't need my car until sunday. Please be careful with it.  _

Yuuri texts back.  _ Thank you. I will. I will bring it back with a full tank.  _

Then Yuuri scrolls through his contacts to find Mari.  _ Still no luck. I'm still affected by time zones, so I'll keep looking for him.  _

_ When are you coming back?  _

Yuuri frowns, pausing on the keyboard.  _ When I find him. Or the funeral. Whichever comes first.  _

_ Remember to sleep, bro.  _

He doesn't say anything to that. He reaches down to the seat adjuster and puts the seat back for a small, short nap. He rolls down the window, leaving just a tiny gap for air. 

His dreamscape rises up, brightening the world. He's back at that house on the beach, tossing a stick to Makkachin and watching her bound back and forth across the sand. It looks to be around noon, the sun glowing high above in the middle of its path. 

"Yuuri!" 

Yuuri glances back, smiling as Victor waves an origami crane at him. 

"Letter!" 

Then the witch is running, Makkachin quick on his heels. They climb up the stairs to reach Victor. He breathes, panting in front of the other man. "Letter?"

Victor stares dimwitted at Yuuri. "You smell good." 

That can't be right. He smells like dried seaweed, sand, and sweat. But from the way Victor doesn't take his eyes off of Yuuri, the witch, to him, clearly smells like all things he loves and more. 

The alpha snaps out of it after a moment. "Pre-heat. You're in pre-heat. But yes. Letter!" He hands it over to Yuuri and then runs a nervous hand through his silver hair. “Come on, Makka. Daddy has fish for you.” And then Makkachin and Victor go into the house, perhaps heading into the kitchen. 

Pre-heat. Yuuri honestly forgot about his heat. 

Yuuri finds himself sitting at a nearby wooden bench underneath a cherry blossom tree. His hands play with the paper crane, full of familiar magic. His mother’s magic, his mother’s touch, to be precise. The gentle, comforting magic happily sparks at his fingertips. 

Even in a dream, it's painful. 

He carefully unfolds the crane. His eyes adjust to the familiar kanji, the exact penmanship. Her words, artfully tiny even while using a brush instead of a pen. Even though this may not be Yuuri's real mother and his subconscious might have interjected his mother's traits into a dream, it still hurts to see. 

_ Yuuri,  _

_ I'm happy for you that he treats you well. A foreigner like him has different customs and habits. You may have to adjust accordingly. But do not forget your own traditions, for they are worthy as well. You are now part of two worlds.  _

_ You all can visit anytime you like! It's nearing summer and less people are visiting the hot springs. After the festival, Mari plans on visiting your home. She is excited. She has never traveled as far as Matsura County before.  _

_ Be well, Yuuri. And do not forget to be truly happy. Hasetsu is always a home to you, if you ever need one.  _

_ Katsuki Hiroko  _

Yuuri folds the paper back into a crane. He wants to believe these are the same words his mother would say. He wants to believe this is a letter from Victor's realm of death. 

But he knows that is not true. 

The crane flies into the house. 

Yuuri doesn't turn to watch it go. Instead, he watches the waves crash repeatedly onto the sand. He's numb, and he would have felt numb forever if it wasn't for Victor. 

"Yuuri?" Victor says, sitting on the bench next to him. His shoulder bumps into the witch's, and he smiles at the ocean, his eyes a bright blue. "Isn't it beautiful?" 

"It is," he agrees. 

They sit together in peace. 

"I want you to know that I will always love you," he finally says, breaking the silence. "No matter what happens, no matter what you do." 

"I love you, too." 

Shaking his head, Victor gently kneels in front of the other man. "I don't think you know the true depth, Yuuri. My vow to you is the same and will always hold true. Do not urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go, I will go," he breathes, taking a hold of Yuuri's hand. "Where you stay, I will stay. Where you die," he says, kissing a knuckle, "there will I be buried. And the Creator shall see that not even death can separate us." 

"You can't possibly be buried," Yuuri protests, his head spinning at this dark but curiously hopeful turn of a conversation. "You're Death." 

"Yuuri, when you die, a piece of me dies as well. You have my entire heart." 

And that leaves Yuuri speechless. 

Victor doesn't seem to mind that. He holds out his arms and cheerfully asks, "Shall I carry you to the terrible, clueless nest I made for you?" 

“It can’t be terrible if it’s made by you.” 

They’re both flushing red at that. 

Victor’s nose is pink. “I haven’t made a nest in over two centuries,” he confesses. He easily picks Yuuri up in a princess carry. It takes a moment for both of them to slip off their shoes, and Victor unhurriedly walks over to the bedroom with a super organized nest neatly made out of blue fabric. 

Yuuri glares at him. “And you said it was terrible! This looks like what I dream and could never make!” It’s true. Every edge is tucked in, and none of the blanket looks wrinkled in any area. He’s reminded of a lotus flower as he gazes at the nest. 

“I wish there was more fabric.”

“We can get our spare clothes,” Yuuri suggests. 

“Clean clothes,” the alpha stresses.

Yuuri’s slightly disappointed. But he agrees, “Clean clothes.” 

Together, they adjust the “terrible” nest into something they both like. Yuuri throws in some blue kimonos to make it look more colorful. It’s almost sunset by the time they’re finished, and Victor’s lighting up paper lamps so they can see. Yuuri is curled up in his nest when Victor paddles from the kitchen with fruits on plates. 

“Hurting?” Victor asks. 

“A little.” Which is an understatement. 

“Sleep.” 

And so Yuuri does, fading in and out of the world with Victor wrapped around him like an octopus. By the time he truly comes back alive, the world is burning. Figuratively. His hands instinctively move, his fingers touching the cool skin of his alpha. Yes, this is exactly what he needs. And he needs far more than what he has.

“Yuuri? It started?” Victor murmurs. 

“Yeah,” the witch pants. He strips off his sleeping kimono, eager for the cool air to soothe his skin. It gets tossed somewhere into the corner, completely forgotten. It’s not like he’ll ever need it again. 

“What do you want, Yuuri?”

What sort of dumb question is that? 

"Victor," Yuuri orders, "take me." He sharply gasps as the alpha runs his hand down his stomach and wraps his fingers around his cock. "Not like that," he moans. "Fill me so much, Vitya. So I can have your babies." Yuuri should feel embarrassed by his words, but the worries are soon forgotten as soon as a single finger curve its way into Yuuri's slicked entrance. 

"Oh, love. I will," Victor murmurs. 

"First heats between a couple yet to be bonded never gives children," Yuuri babbles, his breath catching as Victor wraps a hand around his cock and slides in a second finger. "First heat, when couples bond. . ." His eyes roll back when Victor's finger finds  _ that  _ spot and massages expertly. 

"Yuuri," Victor murmurs, his hot breath brushing the witch's neck. "Did you memorize  _ The Omega's Handbook?"  _

The witch flushes. "I wanted to be prepared," he stammers out, a blush crawling up from his neck to his face. He almost covers his face with his hands when Victor shushes him. 

"It's okay, Yuuri. I'm glad you take us seriously." He presses a gentle kiss down Yuuri's shoulder. "But we do not have to follow every step down to the extreme details. My love, we make our own path." 

"Then. . ." 

"Yes," Victor prompts, pausing his motions. 

Yuuri flushes. "It said the proper way to mate is for me to be on my hands and knees while you mount me." 

"Yes? I'm not certain. I did not read it." 

The witch rolls his eyes at that. "Can I do something else?" 

"What?" 

Yuuri leans forward, whispering fiercely into Victor's ear. He blushes. 

The alpha smiles. "My love, you only needed to say the word and I will give it to you." He briefly pulls away from Yuuri, adjusting a makeshift pillow of a spare kimono under his head. He brushes back his silver hair, unraveling his kimono in a rush. All of this, all of this love, everything for Yuuri.

Yuuri's mouth wets at the sight of Victor's smooth planes and lines. His eyes shift downwards, watching the engorged flesh redden, presenting itself as it curves towards the omega. Yuuri wants it. He wants it so badly, and he has never been good with self-control. 

He straddles Victor's hip, fitting himself right over the alpha, right where he belongs. He shivers at the hot, reassuring touch of Victor's fingers on his hips. 

"Go at your own pace." 

Yuuri takes a hold of Victor's length. With his other hand, he spreads open his wet hole, wantonly moaning at the heat he surrounds. Slick and Victor's earlier preparations helps him take every inch Victor has to offer. His eyes roll back when he absorbs the full length, his thoughts and doubts quieting and settling into a heady state of lust. He begins to grind against Victor, the slap of skin on skin and squelched sounds so lewd. But Yuuri doesn’t care as he rides Victor, knocking away Victor’s hands when he tries to help. 

“Let me do it,” he moans, grasping Victor’s shoulders. He tightens and squeezes Victor, his mind distantly remembering the guidelines in the handbook.  _ Squeeze the muscles hard to satisfy your alpha.  _

From the way Victor groans, it’s clear the alpha likes it. 

He's shouting the alpha's name when he comes, and determination sinks into his bones as the base of the alpha's cock swells. Yes, the knot. He drives himself deeper, gasping as the knot slips passed his entrance, sealing them both together in ways Yuuri has never experienced before. Exhausted, he collapses onto Victor, his lips mouthing at the alpha's neck in pure instincts. 

He bites, right where a mating bite belongs. He smiles against Victor's ear when the alpha bites back, the bond snaps into place. A new connection. Fragile, but passionate. 

And oh, Yuuri can feel waves upon waves of Victor's love.

Nothing in the handbook said anything about this as he's securely wrapped around by his alpha in a nest of their making.

* * *

It's two hours before sunrise when Yuuri starts the truck back up. There’s texts in the group chat for work, but he’s not going to read that until he’s in a better frame of mind. Until he's thinking straight without thoughts of Victor Nikiforov. He clears the beach’s parking lot and is driving along to find the main road when he makes a right turn instead of a left to head north back to Hasetsu. 

There’s something bothering him. 

Matsura County. 

Hasetsu is north of a city called Matsuura. It could be a coincidence. But it probably isn’t. Besides, Yuuri still hasn’t found Vicchan and he has a little bit of time to kill. 

He’s driving along National Route 204, south bound. He clears into the city of Matsuura, according to the numerous signs. He frowns as the road changes, and his instincts tell him to follow the road along the beach. It’s possibly a long shot, but perhaps, he can solve one mystery today. Cars pass him occasionally on the two-way road. 

He glances at the sky. Almost sunrise. Perhaps thirty minutes from so. Mila, if she was here, could tell him right down to the very minute. 

Yuuri makes a few wrong turns that lead to a dead-end. He nearly crashes into another car that tries to make an illegal u-turn. It's after the second near-accident Yuuri pulls into a private road surrounded by layers of meticulous cherry blossom trees. Flowers have yet to bloom. 

Rolling down the window, he turns off the car. He has forgotten how crazy the road can be. He pulls out his phone to find a route back to Hasetsu. It's clear he's only gotten lost instead of finding the place he saw twice in his dreams. 

It's the barking that draws his eyes away from his phone screen. Standing a meter away in front of the truck is a chocolate-brown standard poodle. Its eyes flash red. 

"A hellhound," Yuuri breathes, his heart stills. 

They're incredibly dangerous. Especially in a situation like this. They can easily destroy a car if they tried. 

This one does not. 

The hellhound bounds over, ears flopping as it darts around the truck and launches its paws on the driver's side window. The hellhound, a girl, happily sniffs Yuuri's hair and licks the witch's cheek. She doesn't seem to be hungry, and she's been well-fed. 

Yuuri doesn't dare to hope, but he tries, "Makkachin?" 

She barks again in acknowledgment, her tail thumping loudly on the side of the truck. 

"You mean. . ." Yuuri glances down the road. It turns and curves somewhere behind the forest of cherry blossom trees. Determined, he looks back at her. "I'll walk with you." 

She's quite intelligent. She gets off the car door and backs up enough to give Yuuri enough room to exit the truck. She jumps up and down, her tail wagging. 

"Whoa!" Yuuri laughs as she plants her front paws on his stomach. He quickly offers her a quick pet on her head. "You just love attention." 

Her tongue rolls out. She's unrepentant to Yuuri's declaration, happily leading the witch down the concrete road. Yuuri almost feels worried about the truck when the road curves back and forth to the point he no longer sees it. But it should be fine. He hopes. 

"I'm blaming you if the truck gets stolen," he tells Makkachin. "For leading me astray." 

She boofs, not missing a step. 

When they clear the last curve, the first thing Yuuri notices is the sound of the ocean. The waves and the scent of sea salt prevails. The sun is waking up now, setting the world alight. 

The second thing is the house. He's not sure what he was expecting. Maybe he was thinking of the house he saw in his dream. This is anything but that. 

This setting belongs to the front covers of a fancy real estate magazine. The house has been modernized. There is evidence of Japanese architecture in its roof, but the foundation is undeniably Western in nature. It's a pale pearl color, and parked in front of the home is a nice golden Lexus. 

Which means someone is home. 

Makkachin does not lead him directly to the front door. Instead, she bounds off to the side of the house where wooden steps lead down to the beach below. 

There's another dog down at the beach. A familiar small dog, a brown toy poodle inspecting a batch of dry seaweed on the sand. Yuuri walks faster now, his hands holding the wooden post to help himself get down to the beach sooner. 

"Vicchan?" He calls out, unable to believe his eyes. The dog glances up, his feet moving towards the witch. "Vicchan!" 

He catches up with Vicchan. Makkachin dances around them both, barking up a storm. 

"Vicchan, what are you. . ." He couldn't finish his sentence. Yuuri adjusts his glasses, his eyes locked upon the house. 

The little path of stairs leading back to the house is exactly the same in his dream. The house looks similar now that he thinks harder about it. He can see the marble bench that is the exact replica of the one he sat on in his dream. He's still staring at the house when the waves crash against his feet and wets his shoes. 

"Makka, Vicchan! Quiet!" shouts a familiar voice. 

The poodles stop barking. 

Yuuri doesn't want to turn around. But he does. He does anyway and  _ blushes.  _

Victor Nikiforov emerges from the water in nothing but a tiny black speedo. It's obscenely tight around his hip and does nothing to hide his assets, and Yuuri forces himself to quickly look up before he spends another two seconds ogling his dick through the thin fabric and trying to guess if the real version of Victor's dick holds any water to its dream counterpart. His defined, muscular chest covered in water droplets is not an improvement, but it's more socially acceptable. Yuuri doesn't think it's a term that can ever be used for a dripping wet Victor Nikiforov. 

His face warm, he forces himself to stay in place instead of running away like an idiot. 

"Yuuri," the alpha breathes, using the Japanese syllables and actually looking surprised for once. "What are you doing here?" 

"Fetching my dog," he replies back in Japanese. He pauses, narrowing his eyes. "What is Vicchan doing here?" 

"He likes to spend time with Makkachin. She's probably the closest hellhound around for miles," Victor explains. He gestures to the house. "Can I get you something to drink?" 

"I have a funeral to attend. Soon," Yuuri says. 

Vicchan whimpers. 

"Yes. I see." 

The witch bends down and picks up the toy poodle. "Well, I got to go before traffic picks up." He has no idea if that's true, but he wants to leave. As soon as possible. 

"Yuuri. I'm sorry." He opens his mouth as if he wants to say more. 

Yuuri cuts in, wanting that conversation topic to stop. To end. "This house," he blurts out. "What happened to this house?" 

"Huh?" Victor tilts his head. 

"A long time ago, it was different. It was minka-styled. Single story, not two. I," Yuuri pauses at Victor's face, now realizing he sounds like a maniac of some sorts. "Sorry, I saw this place in a dream." 

Silence. 

"It was different," Victor confirms, turning his head to watch the waves. The sunlight hits his austere features, perfectly so. There's a pale white scar, an old mating bite, at the left base of his neck. Yuuri wonders why he never noticed it before. "But the original house that was here during the tenth century was destroyed by a fire. I rebuilt it to something else over the years, but nature always destroys it. This is the latest incarnation of the house that has been here for almost a thousand years. It was last destroyed in 1828 by a typhoon. That particular disaster killed almost twenty thousand." 

"You like it here." He removes his eyes from the scar. 

"It's peaceful. Sometimes, I will hear the gulls." 

Yuuri absentmindedly pets Vicchan. "You once had a spouse. A husband?" 

Victor snaps his head back, his eyes guarded. Nevertheless, he admits, "I did." 

"Was he a witch?" 

"Yes." 

_ Is that why you like me, Victor? Because I remind you of your dead husband?  _

It's as if icy cold water splashed over Yuuri's head. Yuuri doesn't dare to ask him that question. Instead, he awkwardly adjusts Vicchan's weight in his arms and says, "I better go. I don't want to be late to the funeral." 

For a second, Victor looks as if he wants to say something more. But he closes with "Take care of yourself, Yuuri." Then he turns away, walking back into the ocean. 

Yuuri can't help but wrongfully stare at the alpha's bottom sinfully wrapped by the black speedo. That picture alone could fuel many lonely nights.

* * *

Coming from Yutopia in a black suit and tie, he arrives just in time at the temple. 

The only one dressed in white is his mother. It's all he can focus on as he shook millions of hands and heard the same words in more or less the same exact order. Mari collects envelopes from attendees while Vicchan hides behind her legs on a cushion. His dad is hiding somewhere, perhaps inside the temple to quietly gather his thoughts. 

Though Japanese customs demand her to be cremated, the Katsuki coven has their own burial rites. The first part lies with the local priest at the temple. The second part, where a normal Japanese lady would be cremated and then put into a urn, is where it all changes. 

They have a party, a celebration of a life well-lived. Mari takes out plates of their mother's favorite foods, and Yuuri hands every guest utensils and a bowl of rice. It's an informal affair, a casual late lunch, just what his mom would have liked. 

Afterwards, the funeral presides, the local priests saying some nice words and usual gimmicks about life and death. Yuuri couldn't listen. He can't help but remember Victor, the one witness to his mother's death. Born, live, and die. 

Then six pallbearers pick Hiroko Katsuki's body up by her temporary casket. A single white cloth shields her from view. Yuuri's father walks behind, and Yuuri and Mari stand together as the line of mourners begin to walk downslope. 

Sand tracks into their shoes, but no one seems to care. The call of the beach roars, as if hearing their approach. The pallbearers, including three of their neighbors and three longtime patrons of the hot springs, place the casket on the sand. 

It does not take long for the wind to sweep away the cloth. Hiroko Katsuki lies dead on the sand in a casket underneath a warm afternoon sun. 

There is a moment of silence. A long moment of respect. 

His father makes his approach. A touch to her forehead, some quiet words only meant for the two of them. The small but magical release of a tender blessing, the hope she will find peace in the afterlife. He bows before her and steps back. 

Yuuri is next. He closes his eyes, thinking of katsudon and all the good memories he ever had with his mother. Feeling the magic flow through his veins, he whispers in Japanese, "Blessed be. May we see each other again." Then he bows, opening his eyes to his pale, unmoving mother. 

He moves away, his eyes feeling quite dry and painful. It's not because of sand. 

Mari is the last to provide her blessing. She murmurs some words and then raises her hands, palms up to the sky. Power glows, sparks of glittery darkness dancing around her fingertips. She concentrates, drawing her magic forth. 

Yuuri doesn't dare take his eyes off his mother. 

It’s like she exhales— 

That’s how Yuuri sees it. Exhales for the last time ever. She breathes out, and she becomes thousands of white, purple, and red paper cranes rising from the casket in a swarm. They flock into the sky, the sound of paper rustling high above the funeral guests. They soar, spreading their wings into the air above. Higher and higher, ever higher until they are mere specks of color in the sky. 

Then they’re gone. 

There’s absolutely nothing in the casket now. 

* * *

After taking a nap in his old room, he powers up his work laptop and inserts the Matsuura address for research. A house that expensive with that much land has to have some records. And if there isn't anything, then Yuuri will run Victor's license plate numbers. He frowns and opens another tab in the software. He might as well run those plates. 

What Victor says appears to be true. Official records say the house was built in 1831 with some modifications made over the years including the addition of an indoor jacuzzi back in the 90s. That one required city permit to build. 

The plates come back as well. 

They're all registered to the same name. Yuuri briefly wonders who managed to forge a social security number and passport for Victor, but he shakes his head. One mystery at a time. He finds a Spain address and Googles it. He pulls up the location on the map, noticing it's an apartment building located just a few blocks down from the hospital. A relatively expensive but also private area. Yuuri can probably see it from his own apartment, but he needs to go back to Madrid to really see if that theory holds any water. 

Yuuri writes down the address, scribbling it down in a notebook. He might spend a day in disguise to poke around the apartment building. Might. 

"Hello?" He picks up a call incoming from Phichit. "What's up?" 

"You coming back tomorrow? It will be Monday." 

"Mari wants me here to help her with Yutopia until we can hire some help. Besides, I have like months of vacation time." 

"Did you force your way through the local police station?" 

"Huh?" 

"Your mom's case," Phichit specifies. 

"No," he truthfully admits. He is tempted to march down to the police station and flash his badge for more information about the case, but he's putting trust into the local police department that they will be able to apprehend and exact justice. "Phichit." 

"What?" 

"Do you feel like we're in a thick part of a forest surrounded by more questions than we can possibly handle?" 

Phichit hesitates. "Well, we're handling two cases and Yakov is making everyone work overtime." 

"Is he giving my work to everyone else?" The witch asks, horrified at that thought. 

"Well, he is passing some of the translation work to me. But I'm getting paid for it, okay? Don't worry about it, Yuuri. I know who to victimize if I need more help." 

"I'll be here." 

Phichit pauses. "I meant, I was going to go bother Minami, but okay, that works too." 

Yuuri laughs. "Okay, but don't push him too hard." 

"Alright, Yuuri. I got to go before Yakov yells at me for being on the phone." 

"Wait," Yuuri blurts out. "Are you on speakerphone?" 

"No. Why?" 

"Is Minako there?" 

"JJ's publicist?" Phichit pauses, baffled. "I think they're still in Italy. Hunting demons. Why?" 

"There's something off about her. I can't explain it. Like supernatural off." 

"I'll keep my eyes out," promises the other witch. "But I didn't sense anything wrong about her. She didn't feel supernatural to me. An alpha with neutralizing deodorant, yes. But nothing else." 

"Okay." He sighs. 

"Anything else you want to tell me?" 

"What?" 

"It sounds like there's something more." 

"Victor's in Japan." 

"What?" He's taken aback. "What do you mean Victor is in Japan?" 

"Had a dream where he was playing house with his husband. In Japan. I got lucky and found the house somehow." 

Phichit pauses. "You know I'm going to say it." 

"Phichit. . ." 

"I don't think it's really dream magic at work. I think it's reincarnation. How did you find the house? How did you find Victor?" 

"I had a dream where I was the Japanese Emperor in the third century. It's not far-fetched that I'm seeing someone else's memories." 

Phichit is quiet. For a moment. "Fine. Let's say it's not reincarnation." 

"It's not." 

"Then what explanation do you have for all of this?" 

"Memories of a dead ancestor." 

The other witch doesn't need to say a single word to demonstrate his lack of amusement. "Okay," he sighs, exasperated. "Let's pretend it's not reincarnation. Let's say one of your dead ancestors was married to Victor a long time ago. Wouldn't there be records of that?" 

Yuuri's stomach flips. "We would have a record of that. But our genealogy book is missing." 

"You guys don't have copies?" 

"We may have an older version somewhere, but I'll have to dig for it." Yuuri distantly remembers his father creating the new book, because the old one had its bindings fading away into dust. But if one of his ancestors was indeed married to Victor, it would have been written in the book.

* * *

Yuuri ends up staying in Hasetsu for another day, a Monday. His father placed the old copy of the genealogy book at the bank with all the other sentimental and important objects like jewelry and official documents. He's wearing gloves and wielding his phone in his other hand as he carefully flips through the weathered pages. 

His eyes scan through. The Katsuki name has been passed through mothers and daughters over the years. He's uninterested in the finer details of their lives. His grandmother's husband doesn't speak to him at all. 

No. It has to be a male ancestor. Married at some point in time. 

There are plenty of male Katsuki ancestors, but none of them have been married at all. No mention of a foreigner or of a silver-haired man. Yuuri slowly slips the book close and places it back into the security deposit box. No clue, none at all, about his dreams. He strips off the gloves and scratches his chin quietly in thought. 

It's possible that the Japanese government may have old records regarding the former owners of the Matsuura home. It may be Victor's husband written on that deed. 

As he securely locks the security deposit box back in place, he asks aloud, "Why do I care? Why do I care about this?" 

It's not as if it had to be an ancestor of Yuuri. It could have been an ancestor of some other family. There are thousands of Japanese magical families. 

He, whoever he was, just was not part of the Katsukis. 

Yuuri doesn't know whether or not he should feel relieved. And even as he pokes and prods his own thoughts, he can't answer the ultimate question: why does he care?

* * *

It's Tuesday afternoon when Mari finally hires three people to help with the cleaning and cooking. All part-time. They still have guests and business, so Yutopia will continue to run. 

"I wish you were staying a bit longer," Mari sighs. She places her hands on her hips, shaking her head. "Business is picking up again. Some witches are coming here for the healing properties of the hot springs. Coming from overseas. It's crazy." 

"I'm sorry." 

"I know you have to go. Catch some bad guys, will you?" 

Yuuri nods and walks out the door. He tightly wraps his coat and then pulls out a chalk to begin writing a tiny teleportation sigil for the international portal on the sidewalk. He stands up and walks over the sigil, his surroundings melding from Hasetsu to a clean, lit station labeled as Kyushu Magical International Station. There are witches walking ahead of him, strolling into the building. 

He follows and finds a ticketing booth. The next available opening to France is in two hours, which is sooner than Yuuri expected. Someone must have canceled their reservation. A dialogue box opens, asking if the time slot is acceptable. Yuuri hits the bolded affirmative and pays the fee. Then he shuffles through the security checkpoint with ease. 

This particular station holds twelve portals. Three are domestic while the other nine are linked to portals across the world. Terminal C is the European portal. Yuuri finds a seat in the waiting room and pulls out his work laptop. 

A curious girl tiptoes closer, her mouth open in shock. "Your laptop," she babbles in Japanese. "How did it fit in your pocket? It's so big!" 

"Yua, don't bother people," says a woman, rushing over to grab the girl. It must be her mother. To Yuuri, she apologizes, "I'm sorry. She's fascinated by spells she has never seen before." 

“Don’t be,” Yuuri reassures, smiling at them both. “Curiosity is the mark of a great witch. Without it, we would have never discovered or developed as many spells as we do now.” 

The woman smiles back, tight-lipped. Perhaps she has experienced her daughter wandering off too many times. As the duo head back to their seats, the girl waves at Yuuri, her eyes fixated on the witch’s coat. 

Yuuri waves back, lost in thought. He can’t help but picture a child. Victor’s and his. In his dream, he was enamoured with the idea of having children. He briefly wonders if Victor had any children. Then he dismisses this line of thinking. It’s distracting him from his work. 

He multi-tasks, shifting between the pages of emails and his phone. He has a lot of work to catch up with. In the work group chat, he ignores the dozen or so memes Mila sent out regarding the Apocalypse. They’re funny, yes. But not important to the case. He keeps scrolling, noticing Mila’s text saying she has emailed everyone an English translation of the Book of Enoch. Yuuri will have to read that later. He keeps scrolling up. 

There’s some more random texts and images in the next four hundred or so messages Yuuri left on unread. Phichit’s hamsters, Georgi’s random discussion about his lost love someone accidentally brought up, complaints about rent being hiked up again in France, Phichit’s hamsters, complaints about COLA, a Spotify link share from Leo, Phichit’s hamsters, complaints about benefits, Phichit’s hamsters. 

He scrolls all the way back to the texts on Friday, to where Guang Hong has posted surveillance photos of their witch. He nearly drops his phone at the digital facial reconstruction photo of their suspect. He’s already looking up the phone number for the coffee shop he visited in Berlin. The one that was close to the first crime scene he’s been in this particular case. 

What was it that man said? 

_ “My name is Morooka Haruki from Japan Times. Lead reporter for international news.” _


	7. Enoch III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Say You Won't Let Go by James Arthur

Yuuri has invested no less than twenty minutes to summon up the urge to call his contact with Japan Times after he so rudely blew him off days ago. The journalist, like all other members of the press, has the phone number for their contact person at Interpol. Unfortunately, that person happened to be Yuuri, who said a _No comment_ after being asked a question centered around too specific details into their case. 

"Morooka? I don't know anyone of that name who has ever worked here," says the real Japan Times reporter, a man named Eiji Watanabe. "But I do wonder if Interpol is still working on that case in Siena." 

"Investigation is currently ongoing." 

"Can I quote you?" He asks. 

Silence. 

"What? It's more interesting than reporting that Interpol has made no statement." 

"Yes. You may quote me." 

"There is a reporter with the surname of Morooka, however. He works for Asahi News as one of their attractive meteorologists before moving over to hard journalism like crime, corruption, and drugs. He’s a muckraker." 

Yuuri scribbles it down in his notebook, crushing the excitement down, so the other man does not catch it. This is finally something he can trace, something tangible. 

"Can I ask one more question?" 

"No comment." 

The reporter grumbles. "Well, it was worth a try," he mutters. 

The call ends. 

"Sir, here you go," says the manager in German, handing Yuuri a small squared envelope. She smiles at him, though the corner of her eyes do not wrinkle. "Is there anything else we can do for Interpol today?" She sounds as if she's addressing a coffee shop patron instead of fielding a law enforcement request. 

"No, thank you." 

Then Yuuri rushes out the door. He's moving, flying on invisible wings of speed. It's as if he's wearing Hermes' sandals. He's energized in a way he hasn't been in a long time. 

He knows why. A crack in the case. It's as if a small opening has appeared in a mystery box, and Yuuri is eager to see what's inside. It's the biggest break yet, and he knows Morooka is most definitely the perpetrator. 

Cases stretching back for years upon years. Victims upon victims. He has gone years without anyone noticing a thing, and like a serial killer, he has a big enough of an ego to approach law enforcement to see their reaction to his kill. Yuuri corrects himself. He is clever enough to hide in plain sight, clever enough that he goes unnoticed under the first inspection. But no longer. 

As he arrives at the German station to cross back into France, he scrolls through his contact list to find Asahi News. There was a reporter, not Morooka, who contacted him for information, but like with Japan Times, Yuuri blew him off. 

It's a little easier to make the call while searching "morooka asahi times" on Google. He plugs in his earphone as the call connects. He's scrolling by YouTube videos of a vaguely familiar man pointing to cartoon clouds and suns. Then he remembers where he saw him. Yakov showed him a video of this Morooka reporting on the murder scene in Italy. But is this the right Morooka? 

"Good evening," he says in English. He pauses, affecting an American accent. "This is Phichit Chulanont from Interpol." 

"Yes! I didn't. . ." The woman on the other end flips through some papers. "Chulanont-san, may I ask if you have a detailed profile of the suspects who committed the murders in Siena?" 

Yuuri blinks, wondering why reporters even try. He’s been texting all of them only two words. He responds, "No comment. But I want to talk to a reporter called Hisashi Morooka." 

The woman pauses, clearly dejected. "I can do that. One moment." 

He's put on hold. 

“I’m sorry, but he’s not available at this moment. He can be available for an interview,” she says, still sounding disappointed yet also strangely determined. “He’s in Switzerland at the moment, but he’ll be happy to interview you whether in person, through chat, or by phone. Whatever time, place, date.” 

“In person?”

“Yes, Hisashi-kun is a witch. He can meet you anywhere you like as long as you give him enough time,” she says. 

Yuuri mulls over it. Then he offers a time. “Tomorrow. Wednesday, eleven o’clock, local time. Lyon, France. There’s a coffee shop named Café Sucré.” He gives her the address. “He can text this number for further details, if needed.” 

“Okay!” She scribbles something down on the other end. “I’ll pass this forward.” 

Yuuri stares at his phone for a few minutes. There is a chance he might start running away as soon as he hears of an interview with Interpol. But it does sound like he officially works for Asahi News, so there will be employment records, vacation days, and sick days. There’s a very visible trail of where Hisashi Morooka has been and went. He can ask Leo or Guang Hong or Mickey to cross-reference the trail with their suspect. In fact, he can ask them right now. Or someone in group chat. 

To the group chat, he texts, _I need someone to cross-reference Hisashi Morooka, a reporter for Asahi News, and our suspect in the soul-eating case._

Mickey is the first to text back. _On it._

He texts again. _Japanese citizen?_

_I believe so. He’s a witch._

That covers the Hisashi Morooka angle Yuuri currently has. He powers up his laptop and scrolls through pages of email until he finds the Book of Enoch translation Mila sent a long time ago. It’s time he finally reads what it says and catches up on the Apocalypse case. 

The book is split into five parts. The first book describes two hundred angels who procreated with humans and created a half-angel, half-human race called the Nephilim. These Nephilim were giants, monsters. Archangels Raphael, Michael, and Gabriel sought wisdom from their Creator in regards to the existence of these beings. Abominations, they called it. The answer was the great flood, in which Noah built an ark to save the believers from the wrath of the Creator. The three archangels then took to imprison the angels who sired the Nephilim deep in the depths of hell and slaughtered all of the Nephilim. 

The prison Chris was talking about, Yuuri thinks. 

The book goes on for quite a bit and then lists the names and sigils of the fallen angels involved. The ones imprisoned, that is. Yuuri mindlessly scrolls through the rest of the story as his thoughts remain focused on the first book. The reason why some angels fell but the others didn’t. 

Of course, this is all assuming that angels are real in the first place. 

“Portal 2 is now open to France,” coolly says the speakers in English. The woman repeats herself in three other languages, French, German, and Spanish. 

Yuuri stows away his laptop. This is where he must get on.

* * *

"Finally, found a match for the blood on the Siena victim's fingers," announces Seung-gil, who does not look at home during their weekly meeting. "Arnold Wagner, German national, was in prison for some robbery and assault. Attempted car theft. This was all when he was sixteen. He got out four years ago, but his DNA was in the system." 

"Where is he now?" 

The vampire gestures to Mickey and takes a seat, rearranging the gruesome photographs of several autopsies. He makes a neat stack and then flips them over, so they face downwards. 

Mickey coughs. "Southeast Italy, according to his credit card statements. I've managed to track him through surveillance cameras as well. He is always seen with two other people. I'm currently running facials through driver license databases." 

Yakov nods in approval. "Katsuki?" 

"Potential lead in the other case," Yuuri says, standing up. It's nothing the rest of the team hasn't heard, but Yakov insists on a team meeting anyway. He never reads the group chat. "I'll be meeting with Hisashi Morooka tomorrow. Phichit and Leo volunteered to be my backup." More like, forced upon Yuuri, but he's thankful for their help, nonetheless. "Mickey also ran a background check." 

A brief silence. 

Yuuri glances at the werewolf, who shakes his head. He continues, "Hisashi Morooka has some overlap with our suspect's, but not completely. Morooka does live streaming of the occasional cute animals he sees through his Instagram and Facebook. The location of his phone does not match the corresponding location of the victims in about three fourth of the cases. Some have overlap, especially in regards to the German cases." 

"Katsuki," gruffly says the boss. "Do you believe Morooka could be the perpetrator for some but not all?" 

"No," he answers confidently. "The magical trace left behind is an exact match across all crime scenes I've visited. I do not believe there are more multiple suspects." 

Mr. Feltsman mulls over this. "Is there a way for you to confirm it's the same witch in the older cases?" 

"Yes," the witch nods. "We'll have to ask the family of the victims for permission to exhume their bodies. There will be magical traces left behind." 

Yakov remains silent. Then he says, "Leo, prepare the papers for exhumation. Do random victims, not all the victims. Have the bodies delivered here." 

"How many, sir?" 

"Enough so it will be statistically unlikely we miss another suspect's magical trace. You know statistics. You figure it out." 

"Yes, sir." 

“I want to set up a team monitoring and following Arnold Wagner,” Yakov says. “Mickey has a good start, but I want people in the field. Every move he makes, we know. Any potential victims? We know. I need Katsuki, Leo, and Mickey on this at the very least.” 

Yuuri nods. 

Yakov moves on, droning about the usual policy changes coming from the upper management and the usual complaints coming from Human Resources. Everyone pretends to listen. Georgi scribbles notes on a large yellow legal pad, and Guang Hong creates memes out of whatever photographs he has on his laptop.

* * *

Tuesday night finds Yuuri crawling into bed. He has barely managed to shove himself into his pajamas, and his head instantly falls on his pillow. He hasn’t washed his sheets since forever, and he feels like years have been passing by in just the last few days. When his dreamscape rises around him and tucks away the skyline of Madrid, he’s puzzled by the lack of anything. It’s only darkness, the kind of darkness Yuuri imagines the afterlife to be. Yuuri doesn’t think he deserves hell, but he doesn’t quite believe in the idea of a heaven. Even with Victor mentioning its existence, Yuuri did not give himself any time at all to reevaluate his beliefs. 

To him, the afterlife is empty and nothing at all. Before he was alive, he was not aware of anything. No pain, no suffering, no happiness, no horror. Just the steady stream of darkness. When he dies, he’ll be returned to the darkness, to a form of eternal sleep. No pain, no suffering, no happiness, no horror, just an endless peace. 

It feels just like what Yuuri imagines. Endless darkness, an eternal darkness. But there are strange whispers in the dark, even though Yuuri feels nothing. Sees nothing. Smells nothing. Taste nothing. 

The whispers become clearer, as if someone has been adjusting the tuner for a radio channel. It’s not whispers at all but words. Strange words. An unfamiliar language, but somehow Yuuri understands each word and syllable perfectly, like every crook and curve on the back of his hand. 

“Do you understand the problem now?” says a voice. 

Yuuri knows that voice. Victor’s. But what is he talking about? Yuuri tries to move his mouth, but he finds he has absolutely nothing to move. Does he even have a mouth at all? Or is he living like a ghost, untouched by anything physical in the world? 

Then there’s another voice, a voice replying to Victor. It’s feminine but guttural in a way because of how the language harshly uses its sounds, forcing the throat to work harder to push out every single consonant and deep turn of the vowels. 

She laughs, "Oh, I do understand the problem. But it's not bothering anyone. None of the inhabitants are bothered by this. I don't believe they even notice." 

_Minako._ But why? And how?

"It's not that funny. I tried using my scythe, and it didn't work. I threw it at it, and it didn't work. Not funny!" 

"But it is," Minako says, stifling some giggles. "Death fails to collect. The eternal horseman, the one who shall reap everything, fails at four souls." She pauses, "I wouldn't worry too much about it. They're all linked together in a way that makes it almost impossible for them to be separated." 

"Almost impossible? What is the possible way then?" 

"Well." She pauses meaningfully. "And there is also a possibility that if they were all to be dead at the exact same time, the spell. . . Curse. . . Will break as well. It's difficult, because they're resilient." 

"I'm not going to kill them." 

"Then you can't collect." 

Victor sighs. "What am I supposed to do then? Let them do. . . Whatever this is? Let this cycle continue over and over and over again?" 

"Have hope." 

"Now you sound like Selaphiel," he grumbles. "Have hope. Be hopeful. What does he know? Miracles can't be made if one keeps holding out their hand and expecting a miracle. Hope can't give miracles." 

"Not with that attitude." Minako tells him, “You need a bit of hope that you’ll eventually come to collect. Until then, the cycle continues.” 

Silence. 

“Perhaps, there is another avenue I can try to collect,” Victor says, sounding a little more collected. He mulls over the problem. “Yes, I think there may be another avenue.” 

“Well, then keep hope.” 

Victor is probably giving Minako a death glare for saying that. The silence is quite pregnant, about to burst out of a womb screaming for air. His voice is fading away, the deep tones echoing as if in some sort of chamber. “I’m sure the cycle will end once the universe eventually passes away.” 

The darkness begins to fade away, giving way to the relentless light. Yuuri’s eyes slowly adjust to the brightness, puzzled by his surroundings. He’s not quite sure where he is, but he can smell the distant smell of the sea, of the salt hanging in the air. He’s in a room with wooden floors, next to a nest of messy clothes and sheets and colorful fabrics. He stands shakily from the bed, moving closer to the bright window. 

“You’re awake,” Victor says, smiling gently at Yuuri. His Japanese flows over, somehow soothing Yuuri with its dulcet tones. “I’ll go get you food and water. Rest, love. Just rest.” 

Yuuri turns his head back to the window. He moves aside the curtain to find the sea. He watches as Makkachin lies on the sand and bathes under the warm rays of the sun. Vicchan is there, too. The other hellhound casually rests on Makkachin’s body, nearly blending into the bigger hellhound. Makkachin and Vicchan in one place? There’s something itching at the back of his head, the blood turning cold as it flows through hairline fractures in Yuuri’s skull, but no matter how hard Yuuri pushes, he can’t find the words to the thought that is disturbing him. All he knows is that something is wrong, something shouldn’t be here. But what is that something? He does not know at all. 

Victor comes back with a little table. On it are two bowls of fruits and one cup of water. They’re ceramic, beautifully done with little sakuras on the side. He takes slow bites of the peaches and dragon fruits while Victor talks. 

“I’m really sorry I couldn’t be here while you were sleeping,” he says, brushing aside his silver hair. “Work calls again. Some enterprising person tried to set fireworks off the wrong way and had major wounds, but couldn’t die right away. He was in pain for a few days, and I couldn’t get to him, because his soul hasn’t detached from his body that much.” Victor’s eyes flick down at the cut fruits, and he quickly adds, “I mean, he was. . .” He blushes, as if unable to find any words. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk about business right now.” 

“It’s okay. I like hearing you speak.” 

As soon as he realizes what he says, Yuuri wants to smack himself. Really? It must be the lamest thing ever said in the entire history of relationships. But Victor, thankfully, doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he lights up, vibrant and alive unlike the dark realm he represents. 

“Okay, but I won’t talk about such dark things,” he promises. “At least, not while you’re eating.” He changes the subject. “Did Makkachin keep you company while you were napping?” 

“Yes, she’s a comfort.”

“Vicchan just shadow traveled an hour ago,” Victor reveals. “He really likes her. There’s not that many hellhounds out there in the world. Tamed ones, at least.”

“They’re cute together,” Yuuri gushes. “Did you see the way he napped on Makkachin? Makkachin doesn’t mind at all.” 

“She loves the company. I’m so glad she likes Vicchan. I’ve left her alone for many hours while I worked, and I always feel guilty about not being around as often as I could be.” 

The witch cups the alpha's face. He whispers, "But she's not going to be alone anymore. And neither will you. I'll be here." 

_For as long as I live, for as long as I can,_ Yuuri adds silently. He's not immortal like Victor, but he's a witch. He will live longer than humans, and in every moment he's with Victor, he can find eternity. He can live on in this memory. It’s the most he can give, and as long as he’s with Victor, he can be satisfied with just this much. 

Life is cruel, but he can forget that truth. 

Eventually, Yuuri finds himself in his alpha’s lap. He rests his head as Makkachin and Vicchan curl up against the duo in their nest. Yuuri’s eyelids grow heavy as the calming movements of the comb relaxes him. He gently brushes through Yuuri's bed hair, setting aside whatever worries Yuuri had. 

They say there is no such thing as perfection on earth. But, as Yuuri is discovering, this is close enough.

* * *

The most surprising thing is that Hisashi Morooka actually showed up at the cafe. He's a somewhat tall witch with dyed brown hair. He holds a phone in one hand and a leather-bound journal in the other. Behind him, Leo casually walks in, his hair tied up in a ponytail with a smartphone in his hand. 

The hunter casually bumps into him to drop a tracker in his pocket. They exchange words of apology, and Morooka moves on. 

Leo takes the seat next to the entrance, eyes still glued to the phone. 

From their corner booth, Yuuri shakes his head at the other witch. "It's not him. It's not the man I saw in Germany." He can tell. The very gait of Hisashi is different. He moves with purpose, every step convicted. It’s not like their suspect, who was demure and less certain. From here, he can taste the bit of magic the other witch gives off. It’s rather serious and galvanic, like a static charge about to burst. He’s actually a decently powerful witch, but he’s not dark, greedy, and deceitful like the magical trace Yuuri’s been hunting for so long. 

"Yeah, he has cute cheekbones and I doubt he would know an eyebrow tweezer if it clamped him in the ass," Phichit agrees, his eyes scanning the untamed thick eyebrows of the clueless reporter. "What do you want to do?" 

"We can still talk to him.” Yuuri pulls out his second work phone, the one with the phone number every crime reporter on the planet knows. He scrolls to find the message box for Morooka and types, _I’m sitting with a colleague in the corner booth. At your right._

The reporter glances down at his phone, turns, and smiles when he sees Phichit and Yuuri waving at him. He pivots and waddles through the tables until he stands in front of them. Offering his hand for a handshake, he introduces himself, “Hisashi Morooka, reporter for Asahi News. I’m pleased that Interpol is able to make time for an interview.” He gestures to a nearby empty chair at another table and asks, “May I join you? I’ll pull up a chair.” 

Phichit nods, “Please.”

Slipping on a translation spell, Hisashi turns to the table and asks, “Quelqu'un utilise-t-il cette chaise? J'aimerais l'emprunter.” 

The lady at the other table shakes her head. “Non, personne ne l'utilise.” 

The reporter pulls the chair away from the table. Sitting at the booth, he eagerly leans in and waves his phone in front of them, placing it on the table. It’s open to a recording app. “Is it alright if I record our conversation? I may use direct quotes in articles.” 

“No, it’s no problem,” Yuuri says, even as he deeply hates himself for saying so. A recorded conversation. It’s already the stuff of nightmares. 

The other Japanese man opens his journal to a bookmarked page full of messy scribbles. Despite Yuuri being unable to read the kanji, Hisashi seems to be able to find the first question he wants to ask. “Is Interpol close to a suspect for the Siena Four?” The Siena Four refers to the four victims. Media has been fearmongering and frantically looking for answers from different places, because Interpol hasn’t given anything out except for general guidelines like staying inside after dark and to avoid strangers. 

“We’re closing in on our suspects,” Phichit reveals. A second later, and he’s nearly biting a tongue at what he said. _Suspects._ This is why Phichit is not the media manager. He shares too much information with everyone. Yakov always likes Yuuri, who dodges every single reporter who manages to find him and always says _No comment_ like it’s the only sentence he knows. 

Yuuri flashes a glare over to the fellow witch and smoothly says, “Asahi News, you said?”

“Yes?” Morooka is clearly confused by the turn of the subject. “I am reporting for Asahi News.” 

“Huh,” Yuuri mulls, pretending to be thinking. He pauses deliberately, analyzing every single expression on the other witch’s face. “I thought you were working for Japan Times.” 

“It’s a good organization. Very big news media corporation compared to Asahi News,” Hisashi says. “I’ve never worked for Japan Times.” 

“Would you work there?”

He shakes his head. “I enjoy working for Asahi News. I hope to be promoted one day to either having my own show or being the anchor.” He flashes a grin at them and steers them back to the case. "Do you have any general advice to ease the thoughts of Italian citizens?" 

Remembering the guidelines Mila typed up and Georgi edited to remove the sarcasm, Yuuri dutifully answers, "Interpol recommends that any church in Western Europe should upgrade their security, especially churches of Abrahamic religions. Adults from the age of eighteen to fifty should be cautious about going out after dark. Women are especially vulnerable. These guidelines only apply to humans." 

"So there are no supernatural victims?" 

Yuuri ponders the question and finds no harm in answering truthfully. "No, there is not." He quickly asks, "What coven are you part of?" 

The reporter blinks, perhaps surprised to be on the other side of the question once again. "The East Nagoya coven. Five hundred and thirty members strong." 

"That's a large coven," Phichit blurts out. 

"Yeah, I'm not part of a family coven." The reporter glances back down at his notebook. "What would you say about the rumors of demons being involved in the case?" 

Yuuri replies, "There are some possible signs of demonic activity, but there is no proof of it." A famous Yuuri Katsuki brand of yes but no answer. He's under orders from Yakov to not send the public into a panic about an Apocalypse. 

"Any advice on demons?" 

"Interpol has a guideline about avoiding demons and preventing possession through anti-possession tattoos. We urge the public to know these methods to safeguard themselves," Yuuri rattles off. He then inquires, "Do you own grimoires?" Not all witches do, but a significant portion do and the rest borrows from libraries.

The reporter frowns at the witch. He finally decides to poke. "Excuse me, but are you here for an interview with me or are you trying to interrogate me?" 

Yuuri smiles, not really reaching his eyes. Finally, the reporter is catching on and he can stop answering Siena questions. "Have you ever been in possession of the Book of Mara?" 

Hisashi chokes. "I do not know what that book is, but can I please know what do you two suspect me of doing?" 

The Interpol agents exchange a glance. 

Yuuri finally takes pity on him. "We don't actually suspect you of anything, Mr. Morooka, but we want to formally confirm this. Can you please demonstrate a spell for us?" 

"A what?" Morooka stares at them both, as if he has never heard of magic before. 

"Any spell," Phichit pipes up. "Small spell, please. We don't want to blow up the building." 

The reporter shakes himself. "Yes, of course." He reaches for a square napkin from the holder and folds it into a brown frog. He taps it on its head, and it comes alive at his touch. Hopping here and there, it gleefully takes into the air with its legs. 

Yuuri catches it in mid-jump, feeling the spell wiggle between his fingers. The magic is not the same as their suspect's. He hands the frog over to Phichit, who speaks. 

"Yes, we don't believe you are our suspect,” the Thai witch says, placing the frog onto the window. It happily cimbs up and up, disappearing from view. “We must ask you to please turn off your recording app.” 

The reporter unlocks his phone. He pauses the recording and nods. “Done.” He retracts his hand, leaving the phone on the table in plain view. 

“A suspect for a different case approached a witness,” Yuuri says, carefully putting together his words. “He used a name. Haruki Morooka, a reporter working for Japan Times.” 

Hisashi frowns. “Haruki. . . That was the name of my grandfather.” 

The two witches exchange a look. It’s not something that came up during the background check or during a search of Haruki Morooka’s name. 

“He was a witch?” asks Phichit. 

“Yes. He’s assumed to be dead for the last thirty or so years. Since the nineties,” the reporter answers, looking vaguely pained. “On the second anniversary of my grandmother’s death, he went off on a hike and never came back. Everyone assumed that he probably decided to pass peacefully and didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. He was fairly old at that time.”

“How old?” 

“He was born in 1848. So everyone thought he merely passed in the woods and decided to be one with nature.”

Yuuri nods. A few Japanese witches do end up doing that. Everyone else around them dies eventually, and the new world doesn’t seem quite right. So they take a stroll into the depths of the woods and release themselves back into nature. Usually, there will be a visible trace of this, a heavy magical residue left in the area for decades. Of course, this method doesn’t apply to all cultures. The indigeous people of America use a similar method while the American witches would rather be sent to magical nursing homes than pass peacefully. It’s a form of euthanasia. 

There usually will also be a legal will for the witch who uses this method. It’s to prevent relatives from taking advantage of an old witch. If there is no will, the Japanese government will bring forth an investigation and send the case to court to determine whether or not the assets of the deceased shall be given to the descendants. 

“He left a will, correct?”

Phichit looks back and forth between the two of them, clearly deciding he does not know what Yuuri is talking about. He probably doesn’t. Old Thai witches are cared for by the younger generations. 

“He did,” Hisashi nods. “The case was closed three months later. No one investigated too deeply into his death. They made a small venture into the woods he was last seen, but they couldn’t find the exact place he died.”

Yuuri pulls out his phone, opening the group chat. “Do you have any photographs of him?” 

“Not with me right now. I do believe my parents still have some polaroids,” he answers. Then his eyes affixed themselves to Yuuri’s phone screen. He pales at the digital reconstruction of Haruki Morooka’s face. “Yeah, that’s him. Before age took him.” He pauses, furrowing his thick eyebrows. “How is that possible?” 

Yes, how indeed is it possible? A witch that is a hundred and seventy-one years old should have died approximately twenty or so years ago. Witches don’t tend to live to pass the hundred and fifty years mark. They might make mistakes in spells and accidentally blow themselves up. 

But this witch made it possible by stealing the lives of others.

* * *

The face of Haruki Morooka, once Hisashi texted Yuuri a digital copy of the witch’s face, is officially on the Interpol’s website for most wanted persons under the supernatural subsection. Yuuri is not given a lot of time to celebrate before being dragged across a few European countries to find himself back in Italy. 

“Wagner has been in and out of that building every three hours, right on the dot. He always walks three blocks down to pick up paint and brushes from the home improvement store and comes back. He’s most definitely a demon,” says Mickey, running through surveillance feeds in the van. “I haven’t gotten too close to get a whiff, but his shopping patterns don’t match Arnold Wagner’s. He used to buy two packs of cigarettes every day. Possibly burning them all on the same day. Since Siena, he hasn’t bought a single pack.” 

Phichit whistles. “What a guy.” He points to the rundown building being recorded by Mickey’s surveillance cameras. “Tell me about that ugly piece of commercial real estate.” 

“It was the headquarters of an insurance company that was wiped out during the Great Recession,” Mickey says. “Technically, the bank owns the building, but no one bought it during auction. It eventually fell into destitution, and it’s now being used by a dozen or so demons as a temporary headquarters.” He pulls up another window, flicking through surveillance photos of several faces. 

Yuuri assumes them to be demons. 

“You mean all of these people are demons?” Phichit slowly inquires, pointing to the pictures. “Like, there’s twelve of these people. At least.”

“That we know of. I had the police do a scan of the building, and there are seventeen infrared heat signatures in there four hours ago. Only three came out.” He flicks to another camera. “And they’re coming back in.” 

“Are they all demons?” 

“I can’t be sure,” Mickey answers, gesturing to the van. “I’m a team of only one man, and I can’t simply run into a building full of potential demons and get you that answer,” he snaps. Then he pauses, blinking quickly. “Sorry, I’ve been running on the tiniest cups of coffee for the last fifteen hours and it’s not even the good ones. Mila went to sleep seven hours ago.” He thumps the fake ceiling above his head, where Mila sleeps. “She’s not going to help until sunset.” 

“Well, we have Leo.”

“Who is getting coffee,” Mickey points out, opening the coffee lid and inhaling the last remains of black coffee that is left. His eyes are bloodshot. “Please tell me you have someone else coming to help. I can’t survive with just a team of four. Even if two of them are witches.” 

“Guang Hong is still in France,” Phichit unhelpfully supplies. 

Mickey makes a withered glare. He does not appreciate the information. 

"So," Yuuri cuts in. "They are only using the back entrance?" 

"Yeah, the front draws too much attention. I'm not sure why the neighboring businesses are not alarmed by people going in through the back." 

"Maybe because they are all wearing suits and act like they belong there?" Yuuri suggests. He turns his head and finds the surveillance footage of the front entrance. "Um. What are they doing here?" 

_They_ refer to a trio of young adults sneaking around cars to approach the front entrance of the former two-story insurance building. Yuuri instantly recognizes them, and so does Phichit. 

"JJ, Isabella, and Hikaru. What, how did they even find this place?" 

"Probably tracked the demons. But they don't know they're walking into a nest," Yuuri says, hand slipping into his coat pocket for a spell while he burst through the van's backdoors. Phichit is quick, right on his heels. 

They nearly knock into Leo carrying three coffee carriers. He instantly drops them and follows the duo towards the building. 

Yuuri wants to scream at the trio who are now trying to pick the lock at the front entrance. He's running through traffic like a madman, stepsiding cars like an asshole. He agonizes at every Italian curse he receives and wishes he wasn't doing this. 

He releases a spell, a flying crane emerging from his palms. His heart nearly skips a beat at the beautiful bird, and he's terribly reminded of his mother for a brief moment. He remembers her teaching him how to make clear edges to make the spell flow better, to make it dance in air with beauty. 

The moment is gone when the crane crashes into JJ's face without hesitation. The hunter bats away the crane with no success. The crane is too quick for him to catch. 

But it serves its purpose, or so Yuuri thinks. Hikaru has managed to pick the lock despite the commotion the crane caused, and they're still too far away. 

Yuuri doesn't dare to shout at them. If he does, he will give away their position to the demons. He can't do that. The crane flies back to Yuuri as the witch watches the trio slip into the building. 

"We don't even know the layout of the building, Yuuri," Phichit hisses. 

Panting, Yuuri grabs the door before it can close completely. "I'm not letting them go in there alone." 

"Oh, hell, I'm going to hate this," Leo mutters, pulling out twin switchblades from his pocket. 

They enter the building in relative silence as the door quietly swings shut behind them. It's lit, which Yuuri is grateful for. The receptionist desk is empty except for the demon hunters. 

"Hey," Yuuri whispers. 

It's almost hilarious how all three of them jump in shock. Almost hilarious. 

JJ is the first to recover, his knife out in front of him as he turns. "Interpol," he realizes. "What are you doing here?" 

"Trying to stop you three from breaking and entering," Phichit quickly answers. "You're walking into a nest of over a dozen demons." 

JJ whispers back, "What do you mean over a dozen?" He pulls out his phone and scans the screen. He makes a small laugh. "Isabella, that kitten from Lilia's Ballet Instagram is upset about the JJ show being canceled." 

"Yuri of Yuri's Angels?" Hikaru Fujiwara leans in, peering over the hunter's shoulder. 

"Yep." 

Yuuri looks at them both in horror. "Over a dozen demons and you two are checking Instagram?" 

JJ quickly puts his phone away and raises his knife. Instead of heading out, he slowly makes his way deeper into the building. Hikaru and Isabella holds out their own weapons. Isabella, a plastic water gun with orange and green coloring. Hikaru, a short knife. 

Even as they look amongst themselves, the Interpol agents have no choice but to follow. They come across the first demon dressed in a suit upon turning into a dead-end. 

Isabella fires her gun straight into the demon's face, scorching it with holy water. Hikaru twists the demon around, grabbing it by the throat to silence its screams. Then JJ plunges his knife through its chest, sending the smell of sulfur and rotten eggs into the hallway. The demon flashes briefly, as if an electric current ran through its body. 

Yuuri has to admit that they operate like a well-oiled machine as he watches Hikaru stash the body somewhere in a closet. But they can't possibly take down a team of sixteen demons. 

Hikaru is stuffing the second demon into an office when they get caught by four demons. 

The witch stands back to back with Leo and Phichit, ready to fight. 

"None of that," chides the lead demon, smirking at them all. He nods his chin, pointing at three other demons coming up from the group behind. "We have you surrounded, you know." From his pocket, he pulls out a switchblade and clicks it open. 

JJ looks to Isabella, as if awaiting an order to fight. She slowly shakes her head. 

A group of six versus seven demons. Yuuri does not like these odds. 

"Come, let us introduce you to our great leader," the demon wearing the skin of a blonde lady. 

That has Yuuri pausing. They can take their odds here or go to an even worse position possible, but even as Yuuri is doing the mental calculation, the demon hunters are already starting to follow the demons to their supposedly great leader, and the demons do not appear hellbent on killing them. Yet. 

A demon pokes Yuuri with the barrel of the gun. It's fake Arnold Wagner. "Move." 

So they move, following the demons. It's a bit surreal to have a demon escort, and Yuuri tries not to breathe through his nose. The scent of sulfur and rot is more than enough for his nose. It's the pungent scent of all demons, but unlike Chris, they don't bother hiding the fact. Chris is always polite enough to bathe and spray a bit of cologne to skillfully hide his demon attributes. 

They're forced through the double doors of a grand boardroom. A pantsuit-cladded woman with sleek black hair and dark blue eyes glances up from the head of the conference table. She puts down whatever report she was engrossed in. Her pouty red lips curve at the sight of the demon hunters. "Oh, four demon hunters and two witches." 

"Lilith," says Isabella, holding her plastic gun tightly in her hands. 

Yuuri jolts at this. Lilith? The demon who is the one behind everything? Behind starting the Apocalypse? This is Lilith? And how does Isabella know?

The demon looks just as surprised as Yuuri is. Her lips frown. “You have the pleasure of knowing who I am, but I don’t know any of you.” 

There is somehow a mutual consensus between JJ’s group and Interpol to not give her any useful information or to make polite introductions. 

The three demons behind her unbutton their suit jackets collectively. There’s a silver blade tucked at their waist. 

The atmosphere is changing. Yuuri bends his knees, ready to move. His eyes glance around, and he doesn’t like how fifteen demons are surrounding them. He doesn’t like these odds. Six to fifteen. He does not know how JJ, Isabella, and Hikaru fight against such overwhelming odds. Especially with the most powerful demon on the other side. 

A demon raises his gun, and Yuuri waves his hand quickly. The gun is quickly thrown to the side, harmlessly changing into a cymbal-banging monkey toy. Why it changed to that particular toy, Yuuri does not know. It was not on his mind. 

The only sound they hear is the cymbals, ominously clapping over and over again. The monkey bobs its head, clapping on the conference table as its dead eyes stares at nothing. 

“Hilarious,” Lilith murmurs. “Kill them. Except for one of the hunters. I think he may be useful for our next ritual.” 

Then the demons move. 

JJ is stabbing a demon in the neck, Leo is dueling two demons with his double switchblades skillfully, and Phichit is forcing the demons back with his water whip. Isabella sprays holy water at any demon getting too close, and Hikaru tries to take on Lilith herself with no success. He's thrown back into the wall like a ragdoll. 

The nearest demon springs into action, and Yuuri moves on instinct. He summons his core essence, his magic, into his palms and blasts pure energy at the demon throwing themselves at Yuuri. He thinks of Makkachin and Vicchan playing together on the beach. He thinks of all the good things they do, and if he’s tempted to cry, he does not show it. The blast is powerful enough to throw all the other demons back into the walls, it’s strong enough to blow back Liilth’s coiffed hair, as if she’s sitting in a windy tunnel. 

He pulls the magic back in, and there is nothing but a black suit set on the floor with Italian shoes. He gasps, wheezing. 

The other demons are wary of them now, pulling themselves up from the walls and wherever they landed. One demon, who landed on the conference table, kicks the cymbal-banging monkey, who is still clapping, off the table. The cymbals keep moving. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Lilith hisses. “Attack!” 

No one moves, all eyes upon Yuuri now. 

“Hmm,” she says, scratching her chin. Her eyes appraise Yuuri carefully. “I suppose you all have some sort of a brain. He’s a powerful witch, yes. But he expelled a lot of energy to cast that form of. . . Disintegration spell. Would have taken less energy to cast an exorcism, but not all witches are that clever.” 

“He killed Abaddon,” says one demon, looking vaguely afraid. “That’s how Abaddon died!” 

Lilith merely looks irritated by that fact. Life of a demon, never really caring about anyone else. “Yes, you idiots. That is how Abaddon died. And if you don’t attack them, that’s how you daft fools will die as well!” 

That seems to put the fear in them all. They begin to stalk their way towards the demon hunters once again, and Yuuri is about to raise his hands to try to summon up enough energy and magic to destroy another demon into nothing but tiny molecules when a great earthquake shakes the entire building with a roar. 

The demons are confused, just as much as everyone else. 

"Yuuri, are you causing this?" Phichit shouts. 

Yuuri should be flattered that Phichit thinks he can cause an earthquake to happen with just his magic. "No," he yells back. 

"Then what is?" 

Lilith's eyes widen, and for the first time, she pales. She disappears with a pop, escaping far away from whatever is coming. 

"Mistress," screams a demon, noticing her disappearance. The demons try to scatter, but doors are closing themselves shut. The three doors lock audibly even as demons try to pull it open. All thoughts of Lilith's order to kill the hunters and Interpol agents, forgotten. 

A great white light brightens from the center of the room. Yuuri's frozen, for a second. 

He knows that light. 

He has seen that light in his dreams. 

But he does not give a second thought about it before he screams, "Shut your eyes! Shut your eyes! Don't look!" Yuuri shuts his eyes, using his palms to cover his eyelids for further protection and hopes everyone listens to him. 

A familiar language echoes in the room, screaming a great battle cry over the begging of the demons. 

I AM RAPHAEL, THE HEALER, ONE OF THE SEVEN PRINCES OF HEAVEN. YOU SHALL NOT KILL THE PROPHET OF THE LORD TODAY. 

When the shaking stops, Yuuri lowers his hands, eyes still shut tight. It doesn't appear to be bright anymore, so he cracks open an eye slowly. Then he gasps, fixing his glasses back onto the ridge of his nose. "What the. . ." 

Where the demons were are just piles of ash. And as Yuuri turns his head, he's relieved to find Isabella, JJ, Hikaru, Phichit, and Leo unharmed. 

"What," Leo breathes, voicing the question on everyone's mind, "was that?" 

"Raphael." 

"What?" Leo repeats, staring at Yuuri. 

"Repeal," Yuuri says again. "The archangel. Didn't you hear her speak?" 

"Yuuri," slowly says Phichit, confused. "All I heard was a bunch of screeching and some high pitched noise. Was super awful. I could not stop hearing it even with my hands over my ears. I wanted to tear my eardrums out." 

There's murmurs of mutual agreement. Yuuri can get the gist of it. Some loud screeching noise came with an earthquake and bright white light that slaughtered every single demon except for Lilith, who fled before she could be smited. 

"What's the Prophet of the Lord?" Yuuri suddenly asks. 

Out of the three demon hunters, only Isabella looks guilty. 

"Isabella?" 

"That's me," she admits. "I'm the Prophet of the Lord."

* * *

Yuuri books a hotel room on his credit card. He'll send the invoice to Interpol for reimbursement. Sara has been sent to process the messy crime scene while JJ and Hikaru take advantage of the room's minibar. 

He feels a little safer interrogating Isabella here rather than the crime scene. He sits on the other side of a table and passes Isabella a plastic water bottle. "So what exactly is a Prophet of the Lord?" 

She takes a sip from the bottle. “It’ll be easier if I describe it to you.” She pauses, her brown eyes flicking from JJ and then back to Yuuri. “A year ago, I was struck by lightning. It was crazy, but I heard a voice saying, ‘Rejoice for the Prophet of the Lord, Isabella Yang.’ I didn’t know where all the information and knowledge was coming from, but I knew that I had a purpose. A purpose to witness the upcoming Apocalypse.” 

Yuuri doesn’t know whether or not to say she’s crazy. But he somehow heard the words of the white light and knows she’s not. She’s not crazy at all. This is real. 

“For the last six months, I’ve been getting visions. I’ve been seeing the demon Lilith in my dreams at first. Then I started seeing her while I’m awake, and JJ got really scared, because I went into a trance-state for two hours while watching Lilith tear apart a dozen demons for their failure. That’s how I was able to find her. I was tracking Lilith based off of my visions.” 

“You didn’t know you were walking into an ambush?”

Isabella shakes her head. “No, I saw that she was alone.” Flashing a nervous grin, she adds, “We were hoping that she was vulnerable and we can finish her off before she can break the last of Lucifer’s seal.” 

“So you still get visions?”

“Occasionally. We’ve been following the demons through my visions. I see something like an old company logo or a street name in my vision, and then Hikaru can figure out where the demons went based off of that.” 

“And the white light?” 

Isabella shakes her head. “I don’t know what that was. I’ve never seen anything like that before. My visions didn’t tell me anything about a white light coming.” 

“What did you see?”

In between gulps of the soda, JJ interjects, “Isabella sometimes sees a little bit ahead. Like into the future. She saw the Siena Four being murdered thirty minutes before they actually were. There was no way we could have stopped it, because we had no idea where it was happening. We had to find out through the news.” 

“In the vision, I was the woman who escaped a demon and bled out at a closed urgent care.” Isabella shivers, her cheeks paling. 

Yuuri knows what it's like. He sees it too in his dreams. These dark stuff of nightmares. He changes the subject and casually inquires, “Where’s your publicist?” 

“Minako?” Hikaru says, befuddled. 

Isabella rolls her eyes. “Yes, Minako. She went off on a bender when we last saw her. Getting more drunk than a fish in a wine bottle. We left her behind in our hotel room. To let her sleep it off.” 

“Why do you let a civilian tag along?” Yuuri asks, leaning in. 

“Well, she’s practically family,” Isabella answers. “And I’m honestly afraid she might actually drink herself to death if no one is there to stop her. She believes in demons and the supernatural, but I think she’s kind of worried about us accidentally getting killed. She might drink more than she already does.” 

“Do you have the hotel room and address?”

“Why?”

“I would like to talk to her.” 

Isabella exchanges a glance with Hikaru and JJ. They shrug back, and JJ picks up a hotel notepad to toss it over to his girlfriend. With careful handwriting, she jots down a hotel in another Italian city and specifies a room on the ninth floor. 

“Thank you.” Yuuri stands up. 

“What are you going to say to her?” Isabella asks. 

“I’m not sure.” But he’s sure as hell going to find some answers. 

Because the voice of Raphael? The one who smited all those demons with ease? The archangel who made the greatest and most powerful demon run away? The Prince of Heaven? That voice belongs to Minako Okukawa.

* * *

He knocks on the door twice before Minako, smelling of liquor but not looking too drunk, yanks it open with a grimace. He quickly glances away at the sight of her white bathrobe. She clearly wears nothing underneath. 

She sighs and says, “One moment.” She shuts the door. 

Yuuri waits two minutes for the door to open again. He’s let in with a nod and a gentle “Come in please” from the woman. He invites himself to sit on the little chair in the corner, staring at the messy contents of the room. The two beds are littered with plastic wrappers and little tiny liquor bottles. Empty, of course. He has never seen Minako in such a disarray state like this before. 

“Sorry for the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.” 

“You’re Raphael. The archangel,” Yuuri cuts in, slicing right to the meat of the conversation. He pushes back his frustration. The frustration crawling up at his throat for the lack of answers and the great mountains of questions. He knows he’s missing something, some sort of truth, that dances right in front of his nose. But no matter how hard he pushes, he can’t seem to unravel it. 

“Not every day I get identified by my true name. I prefer being called by Minako. I don’t look like a Raphael in this form,” Minako says, wrapping a burgundy scarf around her neck. “So how did you know?” 

“You introduced yourself. When you smited all those demons.” Yuuri quotes, “‘I am Raphael, the Healer, One of the Seven Princes of Heaven.’” 

Minako smiles. “So you understand the language of angels.” 

“I, what?” Yuuri splutters. 

“Enochian. That’s the name of the language. You’re one of those who can understand what angels say,” Minako patiently explains, shrugging at this. “It’s a bit rare among humans, but it’s possible. For most humans, when angels talk, all they hear is this really painful high-pitched sound. It’s like Tinnitus but worse.” 

“There are angels?” 

“There are demons, and people don’t believe in them most of the time. Why wouldn’t there be angels?” 

“You put Lucifer in the cage.”

“Actually, that was Michael. Gabriel and I were in charge of binding all of the fallen angels into their prisons. We then flooded the world to kill the Nephilims, and blah, blah, blah. It’s all ancient history. A really long time ago.” Minako approaches the minifridge and pulls out two bottles of beer. “Want one?” 

Yuuri shakes his head. 

“Since then, I’ve been tasked with guarding the Prophets of the Lord.” 

“You know Victor,” Yuuri blurts out. 

Minako cocks her head, furrowing her eyebrows. “Who?” 

“Victor Nikiforov?” 

She shakes her head. “I don’t know anyone by that name.” 

“Death!” 

“Oh, him,” she says, recognition hitting her. “Yeah, I do know him. I haven’t seen him for three thousand years, but he must be still around, because the humans are still dying.” She takes a big gulp out of her beer. “Is that his name now? Victor Nikiforov? Sounds Russian.” 

“It is Russian.”

Minako purses her lips. “Okay, but why do you ask me about him? You clearly know more about him than I do.” 

“Three thousand years ago,” Yuuri fishes. “You talked to him in Enochian. In regards to a soul he couldn’t collect. You found it funny.” 

“Oh, yes. I do recall that conversation,” Minako admits, turning around and setting her beer bottle on the kitchenette counter. 

“What was that conversation about?” 

Minako picks up a dirty dish and begins washing. Her voice could barely be heard over the water. “It was about a soul that was tied so well to the earth that it could not be sent to Heaven, Hell, or any of the other realms. He was fed up with it wandering the earth and said it was annoying him, because it was on his list, but he couldn’t collect it. I still find it funny, to be honest. He chuck his scythe at it, and it flew right through the soul and cut down a niwaki.” She chuckles. 

Standing up, Yuuri frowns and moves to the opposite side of the counter, so he can keep an eye on the archangel. It doesn’t seem incredibly relevant to any of his cases. The discussion of a soul, so why would his dream magic steer him to this conversation? “Does the soul have anything to do with the Apocalypse?” 

Minako starts washing a dirty pot. “Not really. I mean, Death will get what he wants, though. Assuming if he’s having trouble collecting that soul to this day, once the Apocalypse blows over, the magic tying the soul to the earth will be severed.” 

The witch recalls the memory of Chris, of him talking about Victor’s lost love. Perhaps that soul from three thousand years ago is the same soul he loved and lost all those years ago. Perhaps he’s waiting to collect that soul, so he could finally bring it to Heaven. . . As soon as Yuuri theorizes that thought, he tosses it aside. No, the timeline doesn’t match up. Chucking a scythe at the soul doesn’t seem to be romantic behavior. It’s probably two different souls. The one three thousand years ago has nothing to do with the lost love in the eleventh or so century. 

“Are you helping the demon hunters prevent the Apocalypse?” 

Minako laughs. She dries the pot and smiles not-unkindly at the witch. “That’s a bit above my pay grade. My official order is to protect the Prophet and nothing else. Besides, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.” 

“Not even if Isabella keeps trying to find and kill Lilith?” 

“Lilith, the first demon, knows she will not survive a battle between us. She will be annihilated entirely. Wiped off the face of the earth. She knows better than to try, and she will escape as soon as she senses me. The lesser demons, they know that I’m their executioner. They try to run. They can’t. If she tries to use my order to kill the first demon, it will not succeed.” Minako picks up a dirty glass and rinses it. “That’s the truth.” 

“Are any of the archangels or any angels interested in stopping the Apocalypse?” 

“Not that I know of. Why would we? It’s the Creator’s final chapter. It’s fate. It’s the ultimate end to everything. If it happens, why should we stop it?” 

Yuuri stares at her. It’s like a repeat conversation he had with Victor. These immortals, they don’t seem to understand the beauty in the world. They don’t seem to understand that every single one of these seven billion people on this planet matter. Chris, despite being a demon, seems to be the only one with his priorities screwed on straight. And according to the rumor mill, he’s not actually that straight. He’s not even sure where to start to convince Minako that the world is worth saving. Beer, wine, vodka, maybe? 

“I’m not much one for fate.” 

“Oh, I agree,” she laughs. “That I agree on.” 

“Why would you say that?” 

Minako stops her dishwashing. She smiles gently and says, “You already know the answer, Yuuri. You only have to look deep inside yourself to find the truth.” 

But no matter what questions Yuuri throws at Minako next, he can’t seem to find out what answer she’s seeing in him. He wants to scream and tear out his own hair. What possible truth is he missing?

* * *

On Friday, Yuuri shuffles into Yakov’s office. He feels hot with pre-heat, but he decided to come in together anyway to put some more work into the cases. He has already informed Human Resources of the entire week off, but he knew he had to tell Yakov personally rather than have some poor victim from HR tell him through an email. 

“An entire week?” Yakov sighs, perhaps losing hair as he speaks underneath the hat. “I will hate to borrow a witch from another department. Too much paperwork.” 

It’s really Georgi who is filling out the paperwork. Yakov signs off on it, but Yuuri does not point any of this out. Yakov is already sweating at the thought of losing Yuuri for a week. He does not need anything else to set off his mood. 

“I’m really sorry, sir.” But Yuuri does not budge. 

Yakov shakes his head, but he waves his hand. Gruffly, he tells him, “I want you to take care of yourself. Do not strain yourself. Always have plenty of water and food next to you. And to sleep.” 

Yuuri blushes. He has never thought he would get heat advice from _Yakov Feltsman_ of all people. He nods, a strangled noise coming out of his throat. He flees from the man’s office as soon as possible and begins an hour-long journey home, back to Madrid, Spain.

* * *

Even though he’s officially using some of his vacation days, Yuuri puts in more hours on the case. He can’t help but think constantly about all the possible angles. He sort of wishes he has a decent whiteboard, so he can write out all of his theories in a true detective’s style. Alas, he only has his work laptop and his phone. 

One case at a time, Yuuri thinks. He stands underneath a rain of shower water as he ponders all the way back to Victor Nikiforov. Why is he even thinking about Victor? He already knows what Victor is. Death and very much not into the thoughts of stopping the Apocalypse, hellbent on reuniting with his beloved, according to Chris. He’s thinking of the way the speedo stretches across Victor’s bottom when he realizes his pre-heat is coming faster than he originally thought. 

Grabbing a towel, he dries himself off and slips on the ugliest, most comfortable pajama set he owns. He stows away his laptop into his coat, and after a moment, he puts his coat back onto the coat hanger right next to the front door he never uses. He lines up a bunch of water bottles next to his bed and shuffles into the fridge to make sure all of his pre-made meals are stacked up properly. 

They are. 

He plops onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling. He’s vaguely feeling the cramps crawl around his stomach, as if a surgical knife has decided to poke around his innards without splitting his skin open. That’s his signal to swallow a nice big sleeping pill to avoid the ugly side of pre-heat. 

So he does and sets the glass aside. He crawls underneath his blankets and turns to face the windows. The afternoon skyline of Madrid winks at him. He can see Hospital Universitario La Paz in the corner. In the depths of his heart, the witch longs for a hand to wield a comb to brush his hair. He falls asleep within fifteen minutes, ignoring the group text notification pings his phone is vibrating. The world spins, and the magic of his dreamscape does not rise up. The sleeping pill is too strong. 

“Yuuri,” says a voice, his words in familiar Japanese. “Yuuri. Wake up.” 

Yuuri groans. Something is wrong. His mouth is so dry, as if he ate twenty cotton balls without drinking any water. He’s not in heat. No, the cramps rage at him, tearing him up from the inside. His eyes slowly open, and he realizes he’s not in bed. He’s sitting in his wooden dining chair with his hands tied behind his back and his legs bound to the legs. The chair is placed at the center of a spray-painted sigil, the black paint having ruined his white carpet. An unknown citrusy scent of _someone_ in his home burns at Yuuri’s nose. 

When he glances up, he’s surprised to find Haruki Morooka staring at him. Like an idiot, he murmurs in bewilderment, “What are you doing here?” 

Haruki tilts his head. “What an excellent question, Yuuri Katsuki.” He raises a familiar green-grey bound book. The Katsuki genealogy book. “But I think this book raises an even better question.”


	8. Ruth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovers in Japan by Coldplay

"You killed my mother." 

“An unfortunate event,” Morooka says, placing the book on the countertop of Yuuri’s kitchen island. He mockingly sits on a bar stool, turning so he can continue watching the other witch. “But she was in the way.” 

In the way? 

The restraints and the cramps are the only things stopping Yuuri from lunging at the witch and strangling him to death. He remembers his training. Yes. First things first. Awareness. Environment. Where is he? He’s in his dining room in front of the open kitchen, though his table has been pushed aside in favor of Morooka’s sigil. He’s tied up in a chair. This may be one of the worst situations he’s ever been in, but he can do this. 

He has to do this. 

But he has to keep Morooka talking. He can’t end up drained into an old corpse like all the other victims. Can Morooka even drain him, a witch? His youth and life force? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to find out the answer. He remembers Morooka at the coffee shop, approaching Yuuri despite being the suspect they’ve been looking for. He has to have a bit of an ego to do something like that. 

“Why did you?” 

Morooka invites himself to one of Yuuri’s energy drinks, yanking it out of the fridge. “Oh, I was curious. A fellow witch, working for law enforcement. I like to compare bloodlines once in a while. Yours was incredibly interesting.” He sips from the bottle and gives it a contemplative look. “This is too sweet. Can’t be that healthy for your body.”

Yuuri resists the urge to roll his eyes. It’s for his heat. He needs a lot of energy and fat to survive through one. But he does not bother to correct Morooka. He directs him back to the subject. “What about my bloodline?” 

“Witches,” Morooka says, smiling at Yuuri. He caps the bottle and plants it next to the genealogy book. “We tend to live to a hundred and fifty years. After that, we’re taken by some sort of magic accident or old age related incident. But your family. No one in your family lives beyond a hundred years. You, for example, were born on the twenty-ninth of November in 1968. Okay. That seems normal so far. But your great-uncle was named Yuuri Katsuki and was also born on the twenty-ninth of November but in 1868. Does that seem unusual?” 

“It’s a coincidence.” He racks his brain, distantly remembering a great-uncle who died a little before World War II. He doesn’t remember the exact birth date or death date. “I was named after my great-uncle.” 

“Hmm.” Morooka looks down at the sigil. “I guess you are telling me the truth. Or the truth you perceive. What if I tell you that his great-uncle was born on the twenty-ninth of November in 1768? His name was also Yuuri Katsuki. Does that seem to be a coincidence? Three times the charm or so the phrase goes?” Morooka shakes his head. “We can look at your sister for another example. Mari Katsuki, born on January 23 in 1961. Her grandmother was born on January 23 in 1861, and her name was also Mari Katsuki. Her grandmother’s grandmother, Mari Katsuki, was born on January 23 in 1761. Grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother? Mari Katsuki, January 23. 1661. Every Mari Katsuki gives birth to a Hiroko Katsuki. Get the picture?” 

Yuuri furrows his eyebrows. “What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying your family reincarnates. All four of you. Your parents, your sister, and you,” the witch answers, frowning at what he sees. He keeps looking back and forth between the sigil, which must be some sort of truth compulsion sigil, and Yuuri. 

Yuuri longs to look down, to examine the sigil in full. He wasn’t able to obtain a decent glance at it earlier, but perhaps when Morooka turns away, he’ll chance a look and figure out its true purpose. He wants to do anything but face the idea of reincarnation. There is something inside of him that screams, _no, no, no, all lies, not true._

The witch does not dare whisper a word. 

Haruki cocks his head. “Curious. You don’t believe me.” 

“Reincarnation isn’t real.” 

The other man narrows his eyes. “Interesting. I’m guessing it’s some sort of reincarnation spell someone in your family cast that allows you to keep reincarnating at the price of being unable to know that you four are reincarnating.” He shakes his head. "I don't really care about that. But I do want to know how you Katsukis manage to reincarnate." 

Yuuri stares at him, silent. How would he even know how they managed reincarnation? He doesn’t even know that his family reincarnates, assuming if this is even true. 

"So in order to find out why, I'm going to ask you this question. How did you reincarnate?" 

The witch shakes his head. "I don't know." 

Morooka nods. He turns back to the kitchen counter and waves over the empty surface. Suddenly, objects appear, summoned out of seemingly nowhere. The witch casually snips a lock of his hair with a pair of scissors and then sprinkles it into a stuffed hexbag. He ties it and tosses it at Yuuri’s feet without a second glance. 

Yuuri’s stomach drops, but he watches every movement like a hawk. Waiting for an opportunity to strike. When Morooka turns his back, Yuuri glances downwards at the sigil. The black lines swim confusingly, and he curses his terrible eyesight. But it looks to be some sort of truth compulsion and consciousness magic mixed in with a protective sigil. To compel Yuuri to tell the truth and to keep him awake, perhaps fighting off the effects of the sleeping pill. The protective lines of the sigil bothers Yuuri. Its purpose is to prevent Yuuri from casting any sort of spell while he's inside the sigil. So he'll have to get out the slow way. Yuuri's mind does some quick calculation. Interpol will not be expecting a response from him until after his heat. That's probably four to five days away. Survival chances dwindle each day Yuuri stays in this chair. He grows weaker the longer he goes without food or water. 

The witch looks up again. Morooka is still fiddling with his ingredients involving rosemary, pepper, and what smells like the blended remains of an illegal unicorn horn. Why he needs it, Yuuri does not know. 

The other witch announces, "Because you don't remember anything, I presume the curse was cast many lifetimes ago. Or continuously cast every single life at some point. Either way, I’m going to dig through the memories of your soul.” He pauses, tilting his head. “Any questions?” 

Yuuri ignores the constant throbbing in his abdomen, thanking whatever deity out there that Morooka woke up before his heat came. He inquires, “Why do you care?” 

“Death,” Morooka says, shaking his head. “Is inevitable. I grew evermore aware of its proximity to me since my wife passed away. But I intend to survive unlike her. I intend to live beyond my limits. I intend to defy the final hour.” A pause. He peers into Yuuri’s eyes, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t you fear death? Can’t you hear a soft tick, tick, tick inside of you? Don’t you know it’s going to stop ticking one day?” 

“Everything dies.”

The other man smiles. “Not yet.” Then he palms his chest and then pulls it outwards towards Yuuri. 

The world is filled with white smoke. 

In addition to his cramps, Yuuri feels as if his anxiety has decided to make a roaring appearance by stomping through his chest. But it’s not his anxiety. It’s Morooka’s spell, tearing through the layers of Yuuri’s soul and memories. A roller coaster spins him around and around, and he can’t seem to find which way is up or down until he feels a soft awareness out there, a warm steady presence lending him strength. As his eyes roll back, Yuuri thinks he smells the scent of dark chocolate and iron. 

The world settles, refocusing once more. 

There's a white tent encircled by countless numbers of uniformed hospital cots. Cots are filled with bloodied men in mostly Russian uniforms. There's Japanese soldiers muttering in a huddle, words too quiet to be heard. 

But it's the nurse in a bonnet that draws Yuuri's eyes. For it's not just any nurse. It's Yuuri. 

"The war between Russia and Japan," Morooka says, immediately recognizing the approximate time. "I remember this. It was so long ago." 

Yuuri finds it vaguely unsettling when they move with Past Yuuri, following his every movement like a creepy stalker. 

Past Yuuri fills a basin with water before making his careful approach to a doctor. "Doctor, here you are." 

"Thank you." 

Yuuri jolts. It's Victor. His infamous hair is covered by a wool hat, and he's wearing a white apron with surgical tools in his hands, but it's most definitely Victor. He's suddenly reminded of a dream a long time ago, where he wore a bonnet and a dress and nearly kissed Victor in front of cherry blossom trees. It's the exact same setting. 

No. That dream— 

Yuuri doesn't have much time to think about it when the _pow, pow, pow_ of rapid machine gunfire. Men shout, and Victor briefly draws his attention away from his patient. Past Yuuri runs _towards_ the gunfire, his apron blowing in the wind. He’s drawing blue magic up his arms, and the entire field hospital silences when a magical force field forms in Past Yuuri’s hands. 

He throws both hands out, and all the shiny bullets splatter themselves into pancakes upon hitting an invisible wall. Japanese soldiers are the quickest to recover, grabbing the gunman hiding behind the trees with a shout. 

“Impressive magic,” Morooka compliments, frowning. “But it’s not exactly what I’m looking for.” 

“What are you looking for?”

“Great feats of magic. I believe your family’s reincarnation spell took a lot of magic to cast. You must have witnessed it,” the other witch muses. “Perhaps, I must go further back into your past.” 

The dream Yuuri had a long time ago. . . With the bonnet and the dress and the old-fashioned clothes Victor wore. . . It’s not a dream. 

It’s a memory. Maybe they were all memories. 

It’s like a block inside Yuuri’s head has shifted. Yes, he can finally see that he was reincarnated a long time ago, that every single one of his dreams is an echo of the past coming back to haunt the living. Suddenly, he remembers Mari’s recurring dream. 

The tsunami. 

Could that be part of their family’s past? 

The smoke rearranges itself. Past Yuuri wears a yukata while wielding a knife in one hand and vaporizes a Japanese demon with the other hand. The demon leaves slimy green-black goop on his sandals. 

The witch watches this and shakes his head. “It’s still not right. The magic is not enough. It has to be great feats of magic. I suppose I did not extrapolate your memories very well.” He waves, and the setting breaks apart, bursting like a soap bubble. 

The world turns white, and the smoke dances unapologetically, undulating. The world settles down, sunlight hitting the hair of Past Yuuri perfectly so. He's wearing a black kimono as he stalks through a little forest. 

It's mildly disconcerting to be following along with Yuuri's past self without ever moving the feet. Yuuri glances at Morooka, who is enraptured by the memory. He begins to test the limits of his bound hands, quietly noting the quality of the rope. 

Strings. It feels like Yuuri's strings, the one he uses to bind the legs of his chickens before setting them into a large pot for chicken soup. Yuuri's mildly offended. This man has been eating Yuuri's food, has ruined Yuuri's pristine white carpet, and now has tied Yuuri up like a chicken all while in the throes of pre-heat. 

He twists his thumb, trying to wrangle his way out of the strings. 

"Fascinating," Morooka murmurs, watching Past Yuuri knock down a werewolf and fight off the second with his hands lit by witchfire. "But not what I'm looking for. Next." 

The white smoke rises again.

"It seems even in the past, you hunted the rogue supernatural creatures. Time and technology may change, but you haven't. Not at the core." 

The world darkens, smoke turning into a blackened maze. Past Yuuri quietly walks, his path lit up by witchfire. He does not stumble at the scorched skeleton chained to the wall. Either he has seen it before or he has seen too many things like this to be shocked by it. 

"Seventeenth century," the witch guesses. "Maybe even earlier." 

The soft clicks of _something_ sneaks up behind Past Yuuri. A black thing spears right through the past version of the witch from the back. The sharp tip is wet with blood, and there’s something pale black like little hairs emerging from the weapon. 

No. It’s a piercer. 

Of a spider, a creature as big as a grown man. 

Past Yuuri somehow finds it in himself to twist, the piercer sinking even deeper into himself. Yuuri can see it in his knowing eyes. He’s about to die here. But there is something Past Yuuri can still do to make sure he’s the last victim. Past Yuuri seizes the swollen body of the spider and screams as spiteful, raw magic tears them both apart in a violent flash of blue light. 

The real Yuuri shivers. Reincarnation brings a true downer ending. Every single version of Yuuri has died. It’s a forgone conclusion. But perhaps a small idealistic, hopeful part of Yuuri thought maybe he passed away peacefully, like in his sleep and surrounded by the people he loved. 

The next memory brings a wedding. Past Yuuri is dressed in white, and next to him is Victor, also dressed in a wedding kimono. 

Yuuri’s finger briefly stops loosening his ties. He has forgotten about the many, many thirsty dreams he had with Victor. And he has concluded that his dreams were his memories. . . 

So did that mean. . . 

Yuuri was Victor’s husband? The one who Victor loved and lost so many centuries ago? 

If so, then every single one of Victor's actions to Yuuri just the last few months has to be seen through a different light, a new lens. But why would Victor not tell him? Why would he not tell Yuuri any bits about his past, about the lives he lived, about the love they shared? 

"The waves!" A wedding guest shouts. "The sea is rising!" 

Past Yuuri ventures close to the cliffs. Indeed, the sea levels rise quickly, growing ominously in height and shadow. 

It's almost like Mari's dream, except there's no earthquake and they aren't kids. Past Yuuri doesn't seem to notice Mari screaming his name. 

"Pull back! Pull back!" Mari cries. 

Victor, his hair flashing silver, draws his arms around Past Yuuri's waist. "Come, we must find higher ground." 

But Mari. 

Mari does not retreat at the waves. 

Something is about to happen. Something is happening. Yuuri can't look away now, even as he's following Past Yuuri and moving away from the past version of Mari Katsuki. But even as far as they’re distancing from Mari, he can see Mari's dark magic surrounding her. She throws both hands out at the right moment in front of herself, seconds from the relentless gaping mouth of the ocean. 

The water bends, bowing down for Mari. When she throws her arms out and apart, the waves disperse, bursting into millions of billions pink cherry blossom petals blowing in the wind. A master conductor ordering the instruments to soar higher to a crescendo. 

Past Yuuri shouts, "Victor! Stop, it's safe!" 

And it is. All of the wedding guests have stopped running, staring in awe at the glowing petals dancing in the air. 

Yuuri's lost in Victor's neutral expression. Is he surprised? Is he horrified? Or is he thinking about the ripple he indirectly caused here by marrying the past version of Yuuri and accidentally allowing Mari to save the town and its people? 

Past Yuuri is running to his sister's side. "Mari, are you alright?" 

She shakes, shivering like a leaf in the wind. Befuddled, she stares at Past Yuuri for a long moment. Her nose is bleeding, dripping onto her beautiful kimono. "It's not much of a wedding gift, but I hope you liked the cherry blossoms." 

"Mari, relax. Hasetsu is safe." 

"Good." Then she falls over, straight into Past Yuuri's arms.

To his new husband, the witch orders, "Help me carry her home." 

The world dissolves into smoke. 

Morooka shakes his head. "No, that's still not what I'm looking for." A pause as he watches the white smoke dance, forming strange shapes. "Your sister truly is the most powerful witch on the planet. I don't think I've ever seen anyone change such a catastrophic event into something so harmless." 

Yuuri does not like the hungry look in the other witch's eyes, but he does not say a thing. One hand is almost out of his bounds. He only needs to twist his thumb a little more in, and he'll slip free. He'll figure out the ties around his feet later. 

The smoke reforms into another one of Yuuri's memories. 

"You're older than the previous memory," Morooka concludes, examining the past version. "But he isn't." His dark eyes are fixated upon Victor, who's perfectly untouched by time. "What is he? A vampire?" But as soon as that thought crossed his lips, Morooka dismisses, "Can't be. He's under the sun." 

"It's a. . ." Past Yuuri stammers, playing with loose ends of his yukata. He bows to his audience of one, who leans against a boulder. "Please watch me." 

Victor encourages, "I will." 

"Don't take your eyes off me," Past Yuuri orders, drawing up conviction despite the anxiety he's suffering under. 

"I wouldn't dream of it." 

Past Yuuri slips off his shoes, his feet sinking into thin sand. A circular pit of sand, to be specific. It's one of those magical training rings, which is similar to the rings sumo wrestlers use. Japanese witches use them too, because they prove to be invaluable to teaching young witches self-control and greater understanding over their own magic. Why Past Yuuri needs to be in the center of one, Yuuri does not know. 

Past Yuuri's head bows, shadows dancing across his face. There's no music, but he moves to a constant beat, every limb graceful as he twirls. Sand follows his hands like a long sleeve. His face is focused, every action precise and clean. 

Upon watching in awe as Past Yuuri takes into the air and dances on invisible stairs, Yuuri is reminded of kyo-mai. But not entirely. It's not the modern version of it but rather some unrefined, historical version. 

To Victor, it doesn't matter. The alpha is swept away. 

Past Yuuri jumps back to the ground, his sleeves flying wildly with his movements. Sand falls back down, obeying gravity once more. He twirls back to the center of the ring and draws water from the atmosphere with apparent ease. It forms a large bubble, centimeters away from Yuuri's heart. 

With a hand, the bubble burst into millions of water droplets. None of them splatter over Victor or Past Yuuri. Instead, they float in midair even as Past Yuuri dances, like a million diamonds sparkling in the air, sending the sun's rays into iridescent colors of light. It's beautiful, and Yuuri has never seen a dance like this before. A dance that incorporates magic. 

Past Yuuri wields it so easily, just like breathing. He spreads his arms apart, and the water droplets disperse. Witchfire crawls up his wrists and ignites the witch's palms. 

Yuuri's beginning to see the dance and its meaning. Earth, sand. Water. Fire. And air was demonstrated when Past Yuuri took flight two meters into the air and danced without touching the earth. All the magical elements the Ancients believed in, perfectly shown and expertly designed for the audience's pleasure. 

When the dance draws to a close, the witchfire winks out. The blue flames extinguish itself with relative ease, almost like an afterthought. 

"Yuuri, that's amazing!" Victor praises, clapping his hands. 

Past Yuuri nearly sinks to the sand, exhausted by the display of magic. "You like it?" 

"I love it!" 

The memory disappears, fading back into smoke. 

Yuuri freezes when Morooka looks back at him. He does not dare say a word of acknowledgment, but his thumb stretches itself out of his bounds. 

The other witch tilts his head. "Who is that man?" 

Yuuri doesn't dare to show any form of expression. He answers truthfully, "Victor." 

"What is he?" 

Yuuri pauses. He doesn't want to tell Morooka he's Death, but he doesn't want to avoid answering the question and possibly having Morooka force the truth out of him. So he says, "According to him, some religions believe him to be a god." 

"You met him before?" 

Yuuri nods. 

"Well. What can he do? As a god?" Morooka mockingly inquires, skeptical of the concept of a true god in this world. 

"He can blink back and forth in time," Yuuri selectively says. 

"So he can travel a hundred years into the past?" 

The bound witch shrugs. "I don't know." 

The smoke finally seems to select one memory. Past Yuuri is quickly walking away from a silver-haired man. He's stomping across the beach in front of a house that is familiar yet not so familiar. 

It's remarkably similar to the house standing over the sea in Matsuura. Perhaps a different version of it. One that was eventually destroyed by time, like how all the Past Yuuris were. 

"Wait! Yuuri!" 

"What?" Past Yuuri says, twisting around to face the alpha. He's crying, ugly tears crawling down his face. Yuuri had no idea that he was that ugly when he cried, his face blotchy and nose dripping with snot. How Victor doesn't seem to mind at all, he will never know. 

"Yuuri, I'm sorry, but I don't know what I did wrong if you don't tell me." 

Past Yuuri doesn't need to utter a word to demonstrate his sour mood. "Victor, you brought me here a year ago. To this place, this wonderful place. You convinced my parents and my sister of your sincerity, but every night, you do not touch me like how a man touches his husband. Am I not good enough for you?" 

"Yuuri," Victor sighs, so helpless. 

"Is that why? Tell me why so I can see clearly. I know you do feel something for me. Last night was evidence of that, but all you did was pull away." 

Yuuri blushes in his seat. Now, he truly does understand the unfortunate conversation topic. He longs to be anywhere else but here, and he really wishes Morooka didn't listen to any of this. It's frankly too bewildering to think of. 

"Yuuri," Victor says, shaking his head. "It's complicated." 

"Is it because I'm not enough? Not pretty enough? I'm not soft enough? Tell me what I can do, because I've never felt so inadequate in my entire life. Believe me, Victor, there have been many, many moments I've felt inadequate." 

"It's a long story you wouldn't believe. A story you can't believe." Instead of facing Past Yuuri, he turns. 

"Do not turn away from me! I deserve to know!" Past Yuuri's ears are smoking, and blue magic sparks around his fingertips. 

It's another second when hot blue witchfire envelopes Victor's form, flames licking at Victor's face. Victor doesn't seem surprised or horrified at the prospect of being burned alive. Instead, he softly sighs at the dangerous magic and throws himself into the sea. He reemerges shirtless, his clothes having been seared off cleanly. 

He's naked with dripping sea water, and Yuuri, current Yuuri, can't help but glance away hurriedly. Why is he glancing away? He does not know why. It's not as if the real Victor will know of such perverse actions. 

Past Yuuri pales. "I'm sorry." 

"Don't be. I deserve that," Victor admits. He pushes his wet hair back, every motion far too obscene. "I haven't been the best husband." 

"That's not true," Past Yuuri says. "But every time I get close to you, you seem to push me away. I just want to know why. Don't I deserve that much?" 

"I. . ." Victor stares into the sky. Hesitating, he whispers, "I don't want children. I'm sorry." 

They turn into smoke. 

"What kind of an alpha doesn't want children?" Morooka wonders aloud, puzzled. 

Yuuri doesn't answer that. Victor not wanting children? That seems very unlike him. He reddens when he remembers the dream where Past Yuuri begged for Victor to make him pregnant, which he enthusiastically responded to. Or perhaps, something happened and made Victor not want to ever have children later on. 

The smoke draws up another memory. 

It must be of another lifetime, because Past Yuuri has a great collection of white hair. He doesn't look that old, but current Yuuri finds it offensive that Victor still looks perfectly untouched by time. Past Yuuri wears something straight out of the history books. The colors on his kimono aren't as bright nor vibrant as the other clothes worn by Past Yuuri. 

"Please, I want to talk to you." It's Victor again. Chasing Past Yuuri once again. It seems to be a trend. Yuuri runs, Victor follows. 

They’re in Yutopia. Yuuri recognizes the distant bubbling sound of the hot springs. Tucked underneath a few trees are the past versions of Yuuri and Victor. 

“You don’t have anything to say to me. You come here the day after my sister dies, hoping you can have a piece of me,” Past Yuuri accuses, turning and shaking his head at the alpha. “Just like what everyone else wants. I can smell you.” 

“Yuuri. . .” Victor sighs, looking tired and exhausted, as if he’s gone without sleep for a hundred years and Past Yuuri is the sleeping pill he needs. “Let me explain.” 

“No. You turn your back and leave this place.” 

“Please, a moment of your time.” 

“Absolutely no. I made a promise to my sister to never speak to you. I don't know what creative story you told her, but she did not believe it.” With a wave of the witch's hand, Victor's body changes. It _morphs_ into a whirl of colors, confusing and blending into something completely new. The very air shifts, allowing the laws of physics and atoms to be bent to the witch's will. 

In Victor's place is a large grey boulder. A nice rock which could be found by the sea, constantly shaped by the waves and relentless pace of time. 

"Now I change you into stone," says Past Yuuri, coolly looking upon the rock. "This is in the honor of my beloved sister, Mari Katsuki." 

With great spiteful energy, Past Yuuri walks away and does not look back. 

The smoke furrows in, blowing everything into pure white-grey nothingness. 

"Not that one. Next." 

Another memory forms, rising up right before their eyes. Frozen in his seat, Yuuri's mouth drops at the beautiful sight of Hiroko Katsuki, frowning at the tired alpha bowed before her. She holds a bowl of rice in front of her. 

"I'm sorry. I admire your resilience, but you have already spoken to Mari." She's gentle and kind, just like she was in her current version. Exactly how Yuuri remembered her to be. 

She looks so alive, and Yuuri can't help but watch this scene, this memory play out. A single tear slips from his eyes. 

"She's not going to let you speak to Yuuri." 

Past Yuuri lurks behind the corner, watching with curious eyes. His sister brushes pass him and marches straight into the room, pausing to stand right in front of Victor. 

Mari has never looked so cruel and cold before. "You're insane and reckless to have come here today. I already told you no." 

"Let me speak with Yuuri," Victor says, lifting his head. 

"No." With a wave of her hand, she bends atoms and colors into her will. Victor's form shrinks rapidly, changing under the willful force of Mari's transformative magic. Clash of brown and black spins around and around until Victor is no more than a tiny ball of fur. 

A rat. 

Vicchan comes over, sniffing Victor's head. The miniature poodle does not eat the rat, but he instead whines. 

To have not eaten Victor, Vicchan must have known Victor already. Vicchan, as a hellhound, is immortal and possibly remembers every second of the Katsukis' family life. So he mourns for what Mari has done. 

That means, there are still lives Yuuri and Morooka have yet to see. 

Another memory draws itself forward. 

Holding a box, Victor tries to present it to Past Yuuri in the marketplace. He strongly stinks of desperation, which is probably how Mari quickly finds them both and turns him into a perfectly adorable squirrel that chips in outrage. The other shoppers clap in awe while Mari drags Past Yuuri away. 

Past Yuuri is still clutching the box. 

The smoke quickly reforms itself into yet another memory. In a flash of light, Victor is turned into a miniature chocolate-brown poodle. He's nearly identical to Vicchan, just a tad bigger as Vicchan whimpers besides him.

Mari upturns her nose, walking away. 

Past Yuuri opens the door so Victor can leave Yutopia. 

Another memory. 

Without him saying a word, Victor changes into a Japanese serow. Silver, like his hair. It’s utterly ridiculous to watch him hobble away, unfamiliar with the four limbs. 

"Must we do this every time?" Past Yuuri asks, almost sounding as if pleading for her to not. "This is getting excessive." 

Mari merely points to the transformed alpha. "It's really up to him if he wants to stop being turned into an animal." 

When the next memory bubbles up, Yuuri is not a bit surprised to see Victor get turned into a big dog, an Akita Inu. It's becoming quite funny in a depressive manner, and it's clear that there are times Past Yuuri did not witness Victor get turned into an animal. These memories are viewed in reverse chronological order, which means Victor getting turned into a garden tree is among some of the earliest transformations Mari cast. 

Morooka, with each memory, merely gets fed up at Victor literally turning into a hot spring. "How does he not understand this? No means no." A pause. "But he still got with you in another lifetime." 

Pretending to be bound, Yuuri holds the loose ends of the string once binding his wrists. He's puzzled by this as well. The desperation Victor demonstrated, the raw emotion. The humor washes off. No, there was something that set off Victor's actions. Something has caused him to keep trying to reach Past Yuuri despite everyone else playing a game of keep away. But he can't seem to understand why exactly would Victor bring himself so low, reduced to begging, to try to see Past Yuuri, a Yuuri who doesn't even know him. 

A memory forms again. 

Yuuri blinks, vaguely recognizing the bed. The balcony. And in the bed is Past Yuuri. Only a thin sheet protects him and his modesty from the rest of the world. He's alone with a soft smile playing on his lips and a hand wrapped around his stomach. He sleeps peacefully until a sound startles him. 

Past Yuuri sits up. 

Yuuri stiffens.

And from the balcony is a man. An alpha. An unfamiliar man. Yuuri can't help but absorb every detail of his face, something he couldn't see in his dreams. The man is tall, wearing a black tunic, the long fabric sweeping in the wind. He's dressed like a medieval Middle Eastern with messy jet black hair, his dark eyes windows to a soul that has walked among the darkest corner of the earth and survived. Yuuri has seen these hard, determined eyes in soldiers who came back from the war and saw unspeakable truths. 

White light emerges from him, and though Yuuri longs to close his eyes, he, like Past Yuuri, can't help but look. 

He knows how this scene plays out. He knows how this will end. 

Past Yuuri summons volts of pure magic, blue energy seeking to _destroy_ the intruder. It's much different, Yuuri realizes, to see it from a third perspective. He sees his past self weaken eventually, even as the force of white light comes closer to him. 

And when Past Yuuri doesn't have any more magic to give, he collapses on his back. Rings of smoke hisses from Past Yuuri's face. 

No. That's not right. 

Not from just his face. 

From his scorched eye sockets, black ash of where his eyes should be. 

"What have you done?" A voice booms, demanding yet cracking. Victor stands on the balcony, his eyes locked upon the stranger. 

"What's that horrible noise?" Morooka asks, wincing at Victor's words. He doesn't cover his ears, though. It's not like Minako's shouting back in Italy. 

Because he doesn't know that language, Yuuri realizes. 

Because he's speaking Enochian. 

"What are they?" 

Neither men notice Morooka’s question. Past Yuuri's killer backs away from the bed, keeping Victor a healthy distance away. 

"Selaphiel," Victor whispers. "Why?" 

The other man speaks. "Because eventually, he will be with child. We know Nephilims can't be born. I will not see you fallen like the others." 

Nephilims. For the child to be a Nephilim, that means Victor has to be of celestial power, a Heavenly source. An angel. An angel of death? 

Of course. How could Yuuri not have seen this? He wants to smack his head against a wall. How else did he know the language of angels to speak with Minako a long time ago? 

"He's a witch." 

"And what comes out of your union will be more powerful than a regular Nephilim. We know what happened the last time Nephilims existed. The Great War was fought over such matters. I don't want to see you like Lucifer, sitting alone in a cage and waiting for the Apocalypse with only the voice of demons for company." 

"You don't understand, Selaphiel. What we have is pure. It's nothing comparable to when our brothers stole away the daughters and sons of man in rage and envy and lust." 

The angel somehow dares to point at Past Yuuri's dead body. "This is a warning. The second time you come close to procreation, I'll strike faster than you imagine." 

He has great balls of steel to say something like that in front of Victor, whose rage and _grief_ is barely contained. 

Glaring at the angel, Victor inhales deeply. "If there is justice in this world, Selaphiel, then one day. . . One day, you'll understand my pain, the tearing of my heart, the loss of an unconditional, beautiful love. That's the price you'll pay for murder." 

Silence. 

"He will come back," stoically intones Selaphiel. "I know he will reincarnate. You won't resist him. But maybe you will think twice about mating." 

"So much for being the Archangel of Hope," Victor seethes, approaching Yuuri and gathering the dead witch into his arms. 

A pause. Then Selaphiel offers, "Perhaps there is an option for you both. Rapture. It'll probably break the magic, severing him from the rest of his family." 

"I can't possibly do that." 

Victor is right. Yuuri, if he has a choice, will never leave his family. 

"Convince the witch who cast the reincarnation spell to remove it. You can have him in Heaven, and no one will dare to separate the two of you." 

"Any other options?" 

Selaphiel hesitates. "Our Creator may consider helping. If you prayed for help." 

Victor scoffs. "We have not seen our Creator since the beginning of time. What is to say our Creator is not dead?" He pauses, running his hand through Past Yuuri's hair, over and over again. "You can leave, Selaphiel." 

He does not budge. "There is one other option." 

"Yes?" 

"The Apocalypse will deteriorate the state of this world. Eventually, everything here will be destroyed. Including the reincarnation spell. You can reunite with him in Heaven, live freely there." 

The silver-haired alpha doesn't respond to that. 

Selaphiel takes that as his cue to leave. 

Upon Selaphiel's disappearing act, a familiar hellhound slowly makes her way into the bedroom. Makkachin whines at the sight of Yuuri's dead body and sits down on the wood floor. She raises her head and begins to howl. 

The memory disappears. 

"What are they?" Morooka asks aloud, eyes wide. "That white light, that teleportation without using a sigil. That language. It's magic, but it's not like ours." 

Yuuri doesn't dignify it with an answer. It's not like Morooka is expecting him to know. Past Yuuri is dead in that particular moment, after all. 

The next memory is another recreation of Past Yuuri's violent death. He's old, far older than the other versions. He battles against a swooping flying creature with bloodied claws. 

The creature shrieks as it makes another pass at Past Yuuri, successfully tearing out pieces of the witch's face. It's gruesome to watch himself slowly be clawed to death. Death by a thousand cuts, or so the saying goes. 

Yuuri, personally, thinks it's not as bad as the time he died from that oversized black spider. At least, this one won't give him any nightmares. 

Past Yuuri dies while dealing the monster a fatal blow with a final battle cry. Pure magic shreds the creature into wet red feathers, bones, and flesh. 

"Ever the hunter of monsters," Morooka says, raising an eyebrow at the witch. "Even when they can potentially kill you. I guess you truly don't remember the lives of your past. If you did, you would have chosen a far better career. Safer." 

Morooka would never understand the beauty in saving people, in doing the right thing when it counts. He wouldn't understand the concept of making a difference in someone's life for the better. Maybe it makes Yuuri insane, but if he knew of his past deaths, he'll still choose to hunt monsters and murderers all over again. 

Memories seem to fly by faster now. There's no Victor anymore, although he's heard his father name the current Japanese Empress. Empress Genmei. He will have to Google her to figure out the approximate date. Mari forces a hot spring to move three meters to the right, causing a miniature earthquake. 

It's still not what Morooka is looking for. 

All Yuuri knows is that he must keep his eyes out for a great tsunami. Mari's recurring nightmare. It has to be a memory she can never shake off. 

Yuuri just has to wait. And when Morooka is significantly distracted, he'll make his move. 

He waits and waits, suffering through seventeen other memories that do not involve a tsunami. Anticipation swirls in the pits of his stomach, brushing up against dull pangs of his cramps. His eyes watch as smoke turns into sky and the dark ocean. 

A few meters is a young Mari with a bundle in her one arm. A baby version of Past Yuuri, so young and barely able to remember this nightmare. She holds tightly onto the trunk of a tree, keeping her head above the rising water. 

"Please," she begs, crying. "Someone, anybody help!" 

Upon first glance, it doesn't appear as if she cast any sort of spell. But Yuuri can feel it. It's a beacon, like a lighthouse flashing out to the unforgiving sea to call lost ships to the shore. It's the cry of a dying babe in the forest, alone and cold. It's the call to compel a passive listener to become active, to participate, to _save them_ both from the sea. 

A dark shape grows underneath Mari's feet. It's black, sucking in all the colors of the world. As dark as a black hole. When it breaks the surface, the creature holds Mari's kimono in its teeth. 

Not just any creature. A hellhound. 

Vicchan. 

He paddles across volatile spaces of the sea. He swims for Past Yuuri and Mari, tirelessly looking for land. He discovers sanctuary at the distant high points of Hasetsu and sets them both on solid ground. Vicchan darts a few meters away and furiously shakes off the salt water. In his true form, Vicchan is the size of an elephant with jagged teeth bigger than an adult’s hands. His fur absorbs all light, making his coloration blacker than a smoggy night sky. He's darker than even soot of burnt wood. 

For a long time, he loyally stays by Mari and Past Yuuri, waiting for them to wake up from the stress of the tsunami. 

The memory changes. 

It's Mari again with a Past Yuuri in her arms. It must have been a few hours or so before the tsunami hit. She's wearing the exact same kimono, just without water dripping from the fabric. 

She kneels right by the piles of a fallen home. So young, perhaps ten years old in appearance. "Mama?" Mari sniffles. 

"It's okay," Hiroko Katsuki breathes, whispering from underneath the remains of the building. "Help me and your titi out." 

Mari sets Past Yuuri aside and rushes to move piles of wood away. Without magic, it's a slow process. 

"Mari, stop," suddenly says Hiroko. Her face is dusty and brown. Alarmed but measured words slip out of her mouth. "You have to get Yuuri and run to the hill. There's a tsunami coming. The sea is rising." 

"I'm not leaving you behind!" Mari cries, unfailingly stubborn. "I can get you out. I need my magic!" She holds her hands out, concentrating hard though she looks as if suffering from a major bout of constipation. 

"You and Yuuri are more important," Hiroko firmly states. "Leave us behind. Don't worry. We can get out ourselves." 

The truth is so obvious to Yuuri. 

They can't get out. Not without magic. Maybe Hiroko can summon enough strength to cast a spell, but there's a disturbing pool of blood leaking from the ruins. Yuuri guesses their father has to be underneath the ruins, buried even more deeply than their mother. 

And off to the distance, standing right next to the sleeping bundle of Past Yuuri is Victor. 

His hair is long, and he wears a simple shift of white cloth. His bare feet barely float above the grimy ground. He watches the scene before him neutrally, waiting to snip the soul from the body. 

He makes his approach to Hiroko. 

Mari somehow notices his out-reaching hand. "No!" In a wild burst of raw magic, she throws Victor back. 

He comically flies upward into the sky, disappearing into a mere speck of dust. Another abuse suffered by Victor and caused by one Mari Katsuki. 

Mari rushes back to Hiroko, touching her paling face. Holding tiny hands to the side of her mother's face, she pointedly whispers, demands, "We will see each other again. For as long as I live, you and titi and Yuuri will live too. And when any of you live, so shall I." 

Something about that spell breaks the ancient laws of the universe, the oppressive constants about life and death. There's something in that spell to cause Victor to reappear out of nowhere, instantly kneel by Hiroko's side, and touch her in the shoulder. 

Hiroko's face is slack, as if she's sleeping. 

"What have you done?" Victor asks, staring right at Mari. "Do you know what you have done?" 

Mari is only ten or so. She wouldn't have known what spell she cast. All she knows is that she doesn't like this man and that he must _go._

Hiroko opens her eyes. Inhaling deeply, she looks directly at Victor and whispers, "You don't harm my children." 

Nodding in perfect agreement, Mari doesn't need any further encouragement. She throws her hands out at Victor and shouts, "Protect!" 

Dark flames like ember erupt from her hands, spreading across the world like a bomb going off. 

Victor gets thrown back like a ragdoll, disappearing into the horizon for the second time. Yuuri watches in awe. He has never seen Mari casting this much magic before in a short period of time. 

Yuuri doesn't close his eyes as the flames come at him, hiding Mari and the memory from view. It won't harm him. It's just a memory. 

Then Yuuri notices Morooka on fire. Literally. He's shrieking at the dark magical flames somehow burning him. Yuuri doesn't bother questioning. He moves, making short work of the binding around his ankles. He throws the heavy dining chair at Morooka, sending the other witch flying to the scorched wall. 

Upon placing a single foot out of the sigil, Yuuri sways. The sleeping pill and its effects. It's still active in Yuuri's body, but as long as he's in the sigil, he'll stay awake. But he can't cast any magic while he's inside of it, at least not without discovering some side effects. 

His eyes catch at the sight of the cracked drywall. He's doomed. His landlord is not going to rent to him anymore, and Yuuri's renter's insurance rates will be flying to the roof until the day he dies. Yuuri is boiling mad, and he spies the energy drink on the kitchen counter. He aims it squarely at the back of Morooka's head. He doesn't wait to see if that keeps the witch down. 

He stretches, keeping one foot firmly inside the sigil as he reaches for the pot of chicken soup he made for his heat. He grabs it by the handle, fingers pulling themselves to reach. He huffs under its weight. 

With a grunt, he sends the heavy pot at the other witch struggling to rise up. It hits him in the head with a loud clang, and Morooka does not move again. Soup drips into the floor and douses the flames on Morooka's back, sinking into the carpet. 

Yuuri pants, collapsing onto the sigil. His knees vaguely hurt, and he shuts his eyes for a second. He briefly wonders if he's insane, but he can feel gentle, unwavering traces of his mother's magic in the air. Comforting touches. Tears slip out from his eyes, and he wonders if his mother's ghost is at work. 

"Mama, I'm sorry," he whispers. 

Soft touches around his face warms his cheeks. There's the invisible press of lips against his forehead, forgiving and unconditional. Then it's gone. 

Through the smoked remains of Yuuri's front door, his neighbor pokes her head in. She holds out her phone and babbles, "¡Ya viene la policía! ¿Estás bien? ¡Guauu! ¡Tu apartamento entero está destruido! ¿Necesitas alguna ayuda? Tengo primeros auxilios al lado. No te muevas Puedo ayudarle. Soy una enfermera que trabaja para el hospital cercano.” 

Sirens screech, growing louder and louder in volume. It's coming here. Someone probably called the police after seeing the apartment's windows get blown off by the frames. Yuuri’s landlord is most definitely going to kill Yuuri, and it's not even _his_ fault. 

Yuuri doesn’t bother stepping out of the sigil to switch on his translation spell. Instead, he throws his head back and gathers as much air as he could. If he's lucky, there will be someone coming who knows English or one of the other languages he knows. 

It's a lot of awkward gesturing and screaming from Yuuri's landlord for the police officers to call in their supernatural department. A police officer’s Google Translate app conveys the gist of the situation at hand, and they understand enough to leave Yuuri inside the sigil while securing Morooka with specialized handcuffs. They'll call Interpol for them to pick him up while he sees a prison doctor for his injuries. One officer is kind enough to grab Yuuri’s eyeglasses from the nightstand, but Yuuri, like an idiot, forgot to ask for his phone. 

A man with light brown hair and a beard knocks on Yuuri's scorched front door. He's an omega, which is probably why the police officers let him in. He's not dressed like the other officers, however. Instead, he wears a simple jacket and blue collared shirt underneath. He holds out a pharmacy baggie for Yuuri.

The witch catches it, bewildered. 

The man squats in front of the witch. With a kind smile, he introduces in English, "I'm Emil Nekola. I'm from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I want to come in person to express my thanks in person for solving a cold case." 

Yuuri shakes his head. "I'm Interpol. I do my job." 

"Not every day does a decade old cold case get closed. I saw him in the listings and connected him to a few dozen cases back in the States. Flew here when Interpol suspected him of being in Europe." 

The witch breaks open the bag. He recognizes the energy shots infused with caffeine, the pain meds, and the emergency suppressants. He raises an eyebrow at the other man. "You got these?" 

"You can only take one. The pharmacist said not to mix them, especially with the high dose of sleeping pills you took." 

"The sleeping pills should be wearing off in less than an hour. I'll sit in the sigil and wait it out," Yuuri says. "I try not to go on more drugs than I need to." He sets the bag aside. "But thank you for offering." 

Emil nods. "I'll be here for another hour. I think I'm the only translator here who understands both Spanish and English.” He winces and corrects, “Bad American Spanish, but they understand me well enough.” 

“Oh, I see.” 

“While I’m here, I have their permission to take your statement,” Emil tells him, pulling out a miniature notepad from his pocket. “Can you please recount what happened here today? Before the explosion.” 

Yuuri blinks, shaking his head. It’s like an entire adventure has happened today, even though he hasn’t moved even a meter from the sigil. He recalls, “I took one large sleeping pill last night. He woke me up when he drew this sigil. It’s specifically drawn to keep someone awake and conscious.” A pause as Yuuri looks at it even more closely and realizes it’s a modification of the one he saw in the Book of Mara. He decides not to share this information with Emil and continues, “He was trying to interrogate me as he kept me bound in a chair and in the center of the sigil. Hands tied behind my back and ankles tied to the chair legs. I eventually escaped the ties around my hands first, and when he was distracted by a magical explosion he caused somehow, I untied my feet and threw the chair at him. I tried to knock him out by throwing an energy drink at him. Didn’t work until I threw the pot of chicken soup.” He gestures to the messy remains of the pot and the expensive organic chicken upturned in the corner. 

Emil nods and asks a few more other questions, standard procedure for interrogating witnesses. Yuuri is certain he’ll be writing a far more detailed report for Interpol later on once Yakov finds out this ordeal. It’s part of his job, and Yakov demands nothing less. 

“Can you pass me an energy bottle? From the fridge.” Upon receiving one, Yuuri tries for a smile. “Are you of the supernatural department at the FBI?” he asks politely. He sips from the bottle, his thirst temporarily quenched. 

“Yep,” Emil confirms. He sits criss-crossed in front of Yuuri, just outside of the sigil. “I’m actually of the supernatural community like you. I’m a paladin.” 

“A what?”

“Paladin,” Emil repeats. “Have you heard of King Arthur and his knights at the round table? Those knights are paladins.” 

Yuuri vaguely remembers seeing a Bollywood movie that's a random spinoff from the Camelot legends. "Then do you have a king you serve?" 

"I once served a prince," Emil admits, his face drawing into a frown. Yuuri already regrets this line of questioning, but then he brightens. "It's been a long time ago. I'm lucky to have my connection with the prince severed. Paladins and their kings. . . They don't survive when the kings die. I look forward to the day my former master falls." 

"Why?" 

"He's not a kind man," Emil says, shadows crossing his face. "But it was a long time ago. I had to get some help to be freed of my old master." 

Yuuri doesn't push, and Emil doesn't offer any further bits of himself. They sit together in mutual but companionable silence while police officers chatter in the background. A team of CSI begins sweeping through the pathetic remains of Yuuri's kitchen. They tag fingerprints and things Morooka touched. It'll all end up in a big case file at court one day. If justice is found, he will be in jail for a long time. 

"Can you get my phone?" 

"Where is it?" 

"Bedroom." 

Emil walks back with a smartphone in his hands. He shakes his head with sympathy. "Your bedroom is toasted," he tells Yuuri. "I don't think you can stay here for the next few days with CSI combing through your entire apartment for evidence. Their residential witch technician isn’t here yet, so they want to keep most of the scene untouched.” 

Yuuri scratches his head. He unlocks the phone to see over two hundred text messages being spammed in the group chat. He ignores that, but then he sees Guang Hong mentioning Morooka being seen in Japan a week ago by airport cameras in the previews. A little too late for that discovery, Yuuri mournfully thinks. 

“There’s a hotel a few blocks down,” Emil suggests. 

Yuuri shakes his head. “I think I would rather travel back to Japan.” He slowly stands up and holds his hands out in front of him, like a child learning to ice skate for the first time. “Okay, I’m going to try to see if the sleeping pills have worn off.” He tries a slow step forward, feeling the world spin a little. But it’s not too bad. Which means his heat is probably coming soon, because he always times the sleeping pill dosage to wear off right before his pre-heat ends to avoid the cramps. 

There is absolutely no way he can escape to Japan and arrive just in time for his heat. Yuuri sighs, “I think I’ll have to try the hotel option.” But nonetheless, he steps out of the sigil and yawns. He can do this. It’s not that bad. 

“I can book something for you and drive you there,” Emil offers. “Do you need anything in particular? Any supplies? I can get something from your apartment.” With his chin, he gestures behind him at the remains of the witch’s apartment. “Or maybe I can call your friend. Do you know anyone who is in Spain?” 

A knock at the door draws their attention. 

Still dressed in green-blue hospital scrubs, Victor Nikiforov raises an eyebrow. He says, “Lo siento. ¿Estoy interrumpiendo algo?”

Yuuri should really switch on his translation spell. Instead, he’s staring at Victor with his mouth open like a foolish goldfish in admiration and shock of his flawless Spanish. 

“No, no estás interrumpiendo. ¿Puedo ayudarte?” Emil replies. 

“¿Puedo hablar con Yuuri? ¿O es este un mal momento?” 

Yuuri jolts at the sound of his name, his eyes drawing over to Victor. He finally manages some words, speaking at last and overcoming his temporary muteness. “You both can speak in English. Victor here knows English.” 

“That makes it easier,” Emil says, smiling. “I’ve been told I have a terrible American accent when I speak Spanish.” 

“You do,” Victor tells him. “Americanized Spanish.” 

“You know him, Yuuri?” Emil inquires, his head nodding in Victor’s direction. 

Does he? 

In a way, Yuuri does. He has seen Victor in so many memories. He has seen Victor in several different lives. His past self, for instance, has been married to him a few times. But does he truly know Victor? 

No. But it’s time he finds out. 

“Yes,” Yuuri answers, not even showing the slightest tone of hesitation in his voice. “I do know him. He’s a friend of mine. His name is Victor Nikiforov. Works for Hospital Universitario La Paz on Paseo de la Castellana. He can take me to a hotel.” 

Victor’s eyes hilariously bugs out. He obviously did not expect Yuuri to say that of all things. He stands, stupidly frozen for a long moment. 

Emil absorbs this. He turns to Victor and demands, “I’m going to need to see your identification please. Hospital ID card and driver’s license, if you have one.” 

Yuuri shakes his head in mirth as he watches Victor struggling with his wallet, all the fumbling of a teenager hiding in the dark corners of prom night instead of a professional surgeon. He pulls out each piece of identification and waits patiently for Emil to snap photographs of every single card Victor passes him. 

Emil squints at the driver’s license and says, “If Yuuri Katsuki goes missing or gets harmed in any regards, you’ll be certain the entire arm of law enforcement will be looking for him.” 

Shoving his wallet back into his pocket, Victor politely smiles. He’s possibly amused by that threat. It’s not like Death can be harmed under the entire artillery of a police force. “I’ll keep that in mind. Yuuri will be safe with me,” he promises, and that is sincere. 

The FBI agent nods. 

“Help me walk,” Yuuri demands, reaching out to the alpha. As if an afterthought, he adds, “And get my coat.” He’s being bratty, he knows. But he can’t help it. Pre-heat is still cramping up his sides, and even as he’s helped by Victor, it still sucks to walk. He’s not going to ask Victor to carry him, however. He has to draw the line somewhere. 

They make their way to the elevators. Before he gets on, Yuuri whispers, “Stop.”

“Yuuri?” 

“Take me home.” 

Victor pauses, hesitating. “Your apartment is destroyed.” 

“I mean, Matsuura.” 

The world shifts. They’re no longer inside a stuffy apartment complex but rather the back door of a beach house in Matsuura overlooking the sea. Yuuri turns, craning his head to see the waves gently splash against the sand. Makkachin lounges under the sun in the distance, her head noticing their sudden appearance. She doesn’t move, though. She lazily rolls over, exposing her belly to the sun’s rays. 

“Bed?”

“I have a guest bed,” Victor blurts out, reddening. 

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “You’re putting your husband in the guest room?” 

“I,” the alpha chokes, missing a beat as he slips his shoes off. “Well, I. . .” He stumbles, unable to find the correct words. “I mean. . . Husband? That’s. . .”

“Victor,” Yuuri cuts in. “I know the truth now.” 

“You do?” he asks in disbelief.

“Well, in one lifetime, you got turned into a serow and a rat by my sister. I turned you into a rock,” Yuuri recalls, tilting his head at the alpha. “Then there were the lives where I got killed by a spider and some sort of a flying monster.” 

“Konoha-tengu,” corrects Victor. “They don’t exist anymore in this world. Because you hunted them all down in the eighth century.” 

Yuuri nods. He squeezes Victor’s hands, so incredibly warm. Electrifying. He recollects, “You saw me die.”

“I saw you die a lot of times,” the alpha whispers. 

“I was once killed by Selaphiel.”

At the angel’s name, Victor darkens. “Do not speak his name. He does not deserve to be mentioned by you.”

“You cursed him.”

“I did.” 

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say to that. Death cursing an archangel? It sounds like something that should be impossible. But as Victor has said before, he has magic, just not the kind of magic witches use. "My heat." 

Victor blinks slowly. He does not breathe out. "Yes?" 

"Spend it with me." Yuuri stares at Victor for a long time. He almost brings a hand up to wave it in front of the alpha's nose. Did he break him? Did he break Death somehow? It can't be possible, can it? 

Victor stammers out, "But you're in pre-heat." 

"And feeling cramps." He raises his eyebrow and tilts his head. "So you better help me to a bed somewhere and let me sleep it off." 

"I don't want kids," the alpha blurts out, blushing. 

Yuuri doesn't know what to think of this side of Victor. He thinks he likes it, this version of a confused Victor getting whiplash and having his world flipped upside down over and over again. Never-ending surprises. Feeling a pulse of pure excitement, he yanks the collar of Victor's scrub and murmurs, "So? What's the use of living in the modern days without a condom?" His eyes catch on the old mating bite, and a part of him thinks, _no, this will not do._

Yuuri pivots, smirking as his hips sway enticingly. He remembers this house, and he knows the bedroom, Victor's bedroom, is just down the halls. Embarrassment hits him harder than a truck once he plops down on Victor's bed, so saturated with the alpha's scent of rich dark chocolate and the slightest tang of iron. 

Maybe he's pushing too hard? Then again, how will Victor know Yuuri wants him? Maybe it’s the heat talking, but maybe it’s the sight of Past Yuuri’s mating bite on Victor's collar that has gotten a dark possessive side of him twisted. He wants to see a new mark, a fresh bite on that pale neck. 

He crawls underneath the sheets, and wow, he has not changed his pajamas all day. How embarrassing is that. But it makes it so convenient to slip into Victor’s bed. He dozes off, pillow tucked underneath his stomach. 

Eventually, Victor comes by with a familiar wooden bed tray with piles of fruits, a cup of water, and a little vase with a single flower. A red carnation. He offers all but the flower to Yuuri, who drinks and eats a little. The alpha then offers a comb and inquires, suddenly shy, “Can I brush your hair?” 

Yuuri nods, a lump forming in his throat. He remembers this dream, and he sighs when his head falls into Victor’s lap. With an alpha by his side, he's so relaxed in ways he hasn't been for years. He murmurs, "Victor, tell me our story. Without the lies of omission. Without leaving anything out." 

"It's a long story." 

"We have some time." 


	9. Azrael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep Is a Rose by RHODES

Victor always has a soft spot for the Slavic myths. They're great stories, for one thing. Once or twice, he stayed a few minutes before an old grandma or grandpa passed away to hear their tales. He especially likes Koschei the Deathless, who creatively hides his death in tiny objects. The largest of which is a duck, which will fly off if anyone attempts to capture it. 

When he came into existence, the Creator peered at him in silence. Victor felt as if he was under a magnifying glass, like a dead ant squished on a glass slide to be viewed by a high-powered microscope. The archangel coming into existence after Victor had a far different reception. 

"Uriel," the Creator intoned. "The archangel. Rejoice." 

All the other angels have a name. All except Victor, who chose his name after a dying man mistaken Death for his dear friend. Perhaps the Creator saw Their fate in Victor, knowing they will be eventually reaped by Death himself. Everything dies, or so does the saying goes. The Creator soon left Heaven after the creation of magnificent creatures on earth and the quieter, dreading birth of Hell. Victor often thinks of Koschei the Deathless here, in the light of the Creator's disappearance. Perhaps, the Creator hid themselves in a needle, which is buried in an egg, that is carried by a duck that will fly away when Victor approaches. Perhaps, this is the reason why the Creator disappeared. 

Then Lucifer, the second oldest archangel and brightest star in the sky, sought for a position far higher than he deserved, seeking to replace the Creator. Michael and Lucifer fought on the battlefields of Heaven while celestial forces defended humanity on earth on the second front. Victor witnessed every death, his fingers in his true form covered in tens of thousands of names, a permanent stain on his skin until they truly passed. 

"You can't bend the rules?" Cassiel, the Archangel of Temperance, asked. "Not even for our forces? They die. Thousands of us have died already.”

“Yes,” Victor acknowledged, stoic. “Thousands more will die." 

Eventually, Lucifer was imprisoned, his vessel destroyed by Michael, and peace returned to Heaven. 

Time passed slowly yet quickly for Death. Humanity expanded, and greater numbers were dying more than ever more with each successive generation. He began using his time manipulation ability to ensure proper collection. Then, eventually, he enlisted some angels to shift over from their guardian tasks to a full-on reaper duty. Death was busy, and Victor, even with all the time traveling, couldn’t possibly keep up without missing a few souls here and there along the way. A hundred reapers currently work under Victor’s instruction without any time manipulation powers. A few dozen more will eventually need to be enlisted to help. Victor hasn't conducted interviews yet. 

“It’s hard. We allow the reapers to have some breaks in between, because a lot of the cases are tragic. Humanity has so many lives lost and wasted,” Victor says to Yuuri, watching the omega underneath his touch slowly blink. 

He can’t believe Yuuri is here. Has he himself died and gone to Heaven? 

“Do you feel something for the deaths?” Yuuri inquires. 

“I’ve already collected almost a hundred billion humans across human history,” Victor admits. “Every single death blends. It takes a death that is incredibly unusual or strange for me to feel something.” 

Or if the soul couldn’t be collected at all. 

“Three thousand years ago, Hiroko Katsuki and Toshiya Katsuki were on the list. They were to be collected after an earthquake hit southern Japan." 

Victor remembers that particular day as if it was only yesterday. It seems like an usual collection. Names and time and dates and places were etched on his fingers, disappearing once Victor picked up their souls. But then a young Japanese girl saw him, somehow seeing him. With raw emotion and magic, she tossed him into the Sea of Japan, close to the now-South Korean shore. He was shocked and mad, because he had salt water in his hair and clothes and he still had not collected the Katsukis’ souls. 

He flew back in time to see strange magic swarming in iridescent colors around Mari Katsuki and the young Yuuri Katsuki. A golden rope snaked from Mari’s heart and binded them all together. When Victor placed his hand on Hiroko, he discovered he couldn't take her soul to where it belonged. 

When Mari magically threw him across great leagues of distance, he landed into water and left a crater big enough for the river to expand into what is known today: the Hulun Lake. He flew back to Japan and arrived just in time to begin collecting most of the tsunami victims. In the back of his mind, he knew he had to circle back eventually to see if he could collect the Katsukis. 

Underwater, he found the remains of the house. Toshiya Katsuki was not breathing and neither was Hiroko. Their souls have properly detached from their bodies by then, but as he tried to cup their souls, he found he could not grasp them. It was like playing with eels in the ocean, like trying to collect blood from stone. As sneaky and clever his hands were, the two souls refused to be collected and held like all the other souls tucked inside Victor’s sleeves. 

“Your sleeves can hold souls?” Yuuri asks, peering at Victor’s cuffed sleeve. He pulls a loose thread and tilts his head, reminiscent of Makkachin and Vicchan's expressions while suffering through obedience school five years ago after one of them ate Victor’s new leather boots. To this day, he still doesn’t know which dog ate it. He puts his money on Makkachin. She will, if given the chance, eat anything. 

“Not in this form,” Victor explains. “In my true form.” 

The witch squints. “Do you wear a black hood?” 

Victor laughs. “No, the only thing that the Grim Reaper myths have right is my scythe.” 

Time told him that the souls of Hiroko and Toshiya were reborn into new bodies. Three kilometers west of the Katsuki’s home, a young boy named Toshiya was found by tired farmers returning from their work. Two years after Yuuri adopted Toshiya, Mari Katsuki gave birth to a girl possessing the soul of Hiroko Katsuki. 

“It’s always Mari giving birth to Hiroko and Hiroko giving birth to you and Mari,” Victor says, recalling the dozens upon dozens of times he has witnessed these proceedings. “Before the first cycle ended, I figured out the details of Mari’s reincarnation spell. I knew that I could not let it stand, let this sort of spell be cast by other witches even though I could not remove Mari’s. So I made a few modifications to Mari’s spell. Fairly bad modifications.” 

“You were mad about crashing into China.” 

“To be fair, no one has done that before. I’ve suffered a lot under the cruel hands of your sister over the centuries,” Victor pouts. “Can anyone else say they’ve tortured Death himself?”

Yuuri smiles. But he guesses, “You put in some downsides in the reincarnation spell. Some boundaries, so we wouldn’t get too powerful?” 

“Too arrogant. Prideful,” Victor corrects, pushing back a loose strand of the witch’s black hair. “I was kinder than I would have been to more experienced, older witches. Mari didn’t cast that spell out of greed. She was afraid of losing her parents and losing you. She didn’t truly understand the concept of death until it was violently taught to her the day the earthquake came, when her neighbors died and she was almost alone.” 

While modifying the reincarnation spell, he kept the thought of Lucifer in his mind. Lucifer, who sought to be greater than the Creator, who wanted Hell, Heaven, and earth under his domain, who longed to see the angels bow to him. 

“He hated it when one of the last orders of the Creator was to let the humans be. To let them have the great gift of free will while the angels must uphold and follow Heaven's rules. He dreamed of remaking the world in his own image. I think a part of him is convinced he would make an even better Creator. It’s so strange. Lucifer was one of the Creator’s favorites at that time. For him to strike against Heaven shocked a lot of angels.” 

Victor could have spent years musing about his brother, wondering what ran through the archangel’s mind while rebelling against Heaven. He could have, if it isn't for Yuuri's next sentence. 

“You talked with Raphael. To figure out how to end the reincarnation spell.” 

“How did you know?” Victor asks, surprised. It’s so long ago that he nearly forgot about that. Raphael laughed at him when he threw a minor tantrum over Yuuri Katsuki’s spirit wandering the coasts of southern Japan. 

“I saw it in a dream.” 

Dream magic, Victor thinks. Dream magic. He’s honestly surprised that dream magic allowed Yuuri to tap into a long lost memory. Perhaps it’s the upcoming Apocalypse, collapsing the stability of the laws and magic in the world. The Katsukis’ reincarnation spell is so interwoven with the reality of the world that it’s nearly impossible for it to be removed now. Nearly. Only Mari and the Creator could unravel it.

He continues with his story. 

They were a nuisance. The names of Hiroko and Toshiya and Mari and Yuuri Katsuki stained his fingers. The names disappeared once they were born. It became a thing, a sort of strange holiday that occurred every once in a while. See the names disappear off Victor’s skin, watch a few witches get born. For the most part, everything was normal. 

Until it wasn’t. 

“Every once in a while, humans could see me.” As soon as the words cross his lips, Victor dismisses the phrasing. “No, that’s not correct. Every once in a while, I come across humans who can see me on duty. I made a few mistakes here and there, leaving crumbs and indirectly causing things that shouldn’t have been. Western civilization is the most powerful civilization in the world. It shouldn’t be at this strength if it wasn’t for the information I accidentally passed to Hannibal.” 

“But how can you be so sure? Rome could have fallen earlier or later than it already did.” 

“I can see echoes of the timelines that should have been,” Victor explains patiently. If he concentrates, he can see the other timelines. “I can see objects that aren’t where they’re supposed to be. I can see people who are supposed to have lived. I see people who are supposed to have died. I can see animals that are supposed to be but aren’t.”

"Is it painful to see the other timelines?" 

"No, it's like putting on sunglasses." 

Yuuri is quiet. Then he inquires, “But do you think the world is better? This world is better than the original timeline?” 

“In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. The other hill is not always greener. I learned to tune out the other timelines. The other angels don’t have this problem. I think it’s because of my chronokinesis that I can see the other timelines.” 

“So when the other angels and archangels do something like meddle in our world’s politics or knowledge, does it leave a ripple?”

“Not one I can see.” 

Raguel, the Archangel of Justice, occasionally comes down from the high peaks of Heaven to dolt out celestial punishment. In the old days, he used to smite the child predators and murderers when they were lost in the woods. But with the recent boom in technology and cameras, Raguel became much more calculating and subtle in his methods. One murderer slowly killed the neighbor’s daughter with an ice pick. He later ended up permanently paralyzed due to an accident involving an icicle. 

“Not a fan of restorative justice,” Yuuri dryly comments. 

“Well, he dished out a lot of retributive justice during the Old Testament times. I don’t think Raguel has gotten enthralled with the idea of restorative justice yet. Maybe one day. Until then, he’s very. . . He has an eye for an eye sort of thinking.” 

Silence. 

Then. “How did you fall in love with me? How does an angel fall in love with a witch?” Yuuri asks. “A witch the angel found annoying and obnoxious in his way?” 

“You caught my attention.” 

“But how?” It’s as if Yuuri is surprised to be deserving of Victor’s attention. Oh, if Victor has it his way, the world would rise and fall at Yuuri’s word. Some people simply do not see the beauty of Yuuri’s heart and soul, the determined set in the rich layers and the lovely personality housed within. Centuries upon centuries has this soul seen many horrors and great joys yet there is a steadfast core of love unrelenting and constant, as dutiful as the rising and falling tides of the sea. Yuuri himself may not believe it, but Victor knows. 

Oh, he knows. 

"Are you lost?" Yuuri asked, a long, long time ago. 1095 AD, to be precise. He tilted his head at the wet fabric pooling around Victor's ankles and the sand covering his foot. "You don't look like you're from around here." 

"You can see me?" 

The witch raised a curious brow. "You are visible to me, yes." Behind him, Vicchan sniffed some dried seaweed in the distance. He wasn't too alarmed by Victor's presence. All hellhounds knew Death, and Vicchan knew Yuuri was not on the list. 

Not yet, anyway. 

"Which way is it to Matsura?" 

"South." Yuuri pointed to a direction and then described the routes to Matsura. Then he furrowed his eyebrows and asked again, "Are you certain you are not lost?" 

"A little lost." 

Yuuri smiled. "Do you want a meal? A nice hot meal, a change of clothes, and some company before you trek to Matsura?" 

Victor wasn't exactly sure what made him accept the offer. Perhaps, it was the curiosity of the Katsuki family eternally declining Victor's attempts at collecting their souls and sending them off to peace. But to be truthful, it was the soft smile of the young Katsuki boy, whose warm gentle soul glowed in pleasure at Victor's presence and subsequent agreement. 

The Katsukis didn't bat an eye at the strange-looking foreigner their son brought in from the beach. They took out an extra bowl and pair of chopsticks while pipiling a little extra food onto the fire for the additional guest. They took his appearance as a motive for celebration. They offered cups of sake after sake. Victor could hold his liquor with ease. Over the course of his life, he has spent many New Year's Eve partying with Chris and once drank an entire convenience shop in New York City on a bender. 

Yuuri could not hold his liquor. 

It was _delightful._

He sang, he drank, he joked, he laughed. One Yutopia guest brought out his instrument, and oh, the way he danced. He flew, music trying to keep up with his heels. It was a chaotic affair. Yuuri's father was drunk in the corner, letting the townspeople draw a face on his belly, while Mari skillfully kept the sake flowing and Hiroko brought out more food for everyone. 

Eventually, Yuuri dropped into Victor's lap, his scent so sweet and alluring. Panting and glowing red with pleasure, he ordered, "Dance with me." 

He couldn't refuse. 

They twirled together, Victor teaching him European dances for a hot second until Yuuri ran away with the techniques. He was laughing, Vicchan yapping around their heels. He blushed at the hot press of hips bumping against each other. 

Yuuri wasn't acting like a proper omega witch. Not at all. The townspeople and Yutopia judged, for a moment, until sake filled their brains and bloodstreams. Soon, they ignored Yuuri happily soaking Victor in his scent while drinking each other under the table. 

Victor. . . Was so happy. He forgot about the world as he found something he'd been missing for so long. Life and love. For the first time, he belonged somewhere. He mattered to someone, and he will never let go of this. 

It came to the surprise of no one who was there that night when they announced their engagement. 

"I inherited my father's drinking genetics even back then?" Yuuri despairs. "You fell in love with me when I was drunk?" 

"Well," Victor laughs. "I didn't truly know you until after we married. While we were building that seaside house in Matsuura." 

"But I was drunk." 

"That was not the only time." The angel smiles at Yuuri's groan and resulting facepalm, a hot flash of horror passing through their bond. "Don't worry. I love you no matter what you do or where you go." 

"Japan, Seoul, Detroit, New York City, Madrid." 

"Yes?" 

"Those are the last five places we both lived in. It can't be a coincidence, but why did we always live in the same place? It doesn't feel like you are stalking me. . . Were you?" 

"I'll get to that." 

There was no wedding in the modern sense. Those traditions haven't been developed yet. There was, however, a nice banquet thrown by Yuuri's parents. Victor eagerly followed every step of the banquet, obeying the commands of his wonderful mother-in-law. Yuuri was a sight in his best kimono, the red coloring only highlighting his lovely rosy complexion. 

The next day, he took Yuuri south. A land that should have not existed but did, because Victor brought sand and dirt for a little hill to be formed. He sought to minimize the ripples, and creating his own land, stealing a bit from the great vast ocean, cost little. 

Victor flushed, kneeling before the witch. The wind blows from the sea, setting up a gentle breeze whipping their hair back and forth. He clutched Yuuri's hand and explained, "I didn't build anything yet, but I hope you will help me build our home together." 

"I would love to build our home together." Then Yuuri wondered, "But Victor. Where would we sleep while we build?" 

Victor forgot about that detail. 

They set up a temporary tent made of Yuuri's magic while Victor showed Yuuri their small corner of the world. With the help of magic, the hardened foundation of their home was made in less than a day. It took a week for their home to be truly finished in minka-style with its paper walls and the sliding doors, sound traveling easily between rooms. Yuuri wanted the bench in the back. 

"I can sit here and view the ocean. It's calming," he explained, his face reddening. 

"Do whatever you like." Victor was helpless. He couldn’t lift a finger at Yuuri’s infectious smile. Yuuri could have told him to put the bench on the roof, and Victor would have done so. 

A few days later, Victor took him to the beach. They had a little picnic on the sand with Makkachin sunbathing and hogging the entire blanket. They ended up sitting on the sand, neither of them having the urge to kick the hellhound off the blanket. Victor held Yuuri's hand as they stuck their legs in the tide pool, careful to not accidentally wet their clothes. 

"We can go to the market tomorrow," Yuuri said, glancing over to the gulls flying overhead. The clouds hid the sun. "There are some ingredients I want." 

Victor pouted, "Are you still determined on making that surprise dish?" 

"Yes." Ever since Yuuri discovered that Victor was not interested in food nor needed nourishment from food, he was bent on teaching the alpha a few things about the culinary arts. His personal goal was to expand Victor's palate and taste. "I can't believe you don't eat." 

"Death needs no food for sustaining life." 

Yuuri raised an unamused brow. Almost unamused. "Death has lived too long to have not eaten something delicious." 

"You can burn something to ash, and I will tell you it's delicious," Victor jested, winking. 

"You're awful," Yuuri declared. 

"But yours." 

Yuuri smiled at that. 

Once the clouds cleared, they basked in the warm rays of the setting sun. Victor smiles at the soft purrs Yuuri makes against the alpha's chest. He finally spoke again upon a completed sunset. "Yuuri?" 

"Mmm?" 

"I want you to know something," he whispered, turning his head so he could immortalize this lovely sight of Yuuri underneath the dreamy orange-red glow of the darkening sky in his eternal memory. All sincerity, he vowed, "Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay. And I will wait for you, for as long as you need me." 

"I will always need you." 

"That's from Ruth," Yuuri says in the present day, his voice slightly muffled in Victor's lap. His hair is neatly combed, but Victor keeps arranging the omega's hair anyway. "That verse." 

"Not precisely, but yes. Greatly inspired by Ruth," Victor agrees. "Inspiring woman, that Ruth. Her promise to Naomi was quite devout and resilient. Even after their deaths." The angel doesn't explain any further, but he continues on with his side of the story. 

They bonded during Yuuri's first heat, leaving identical bites on their necks. Victor, as an angel, has extensive self-healing powers, but even these powers do not activate to erase Yuuri's mark. No, Yuuri's effect and influence on Victor was and is so permanent that a scar doesn't even begin covering what Yuuri means to Victor.

"A complete bond, though the bond from you to me is much stronger than vice versa. I'm not certain why, but it may be due to your reincarnation and the fact you don't remember anything about your previous bond. It's like you get a fresh slate," Victor explains, setting the comb aside on the night stand. 

"But you didn't," Yuuri guesses. "You didn't get a fresh slate. You remember everything." 

"Yes." Victor shivers at the hot brush of the omega's finger on his old scar. "I do." 

The ripple Victor caused created a mighty difference in the timeline. Victor saw another timeline, the proper timeline, where he did not mate with Yuuri Katsuki. Yuuri would have lived a life, a good quiet life at Yutopia, never marrying and always working at the hot springs in this century. Victor didn't care. Not really. He had Yuuri, and he was invincible. 

Or so he thought. 

Two years of marriage. Two years of beautiful times. Two years of dancing on the beach, swimming in the sea, and learning new dishes to cook and eat. Victor lived and loved fully, coming home after work to a happy normalcy he had never known before. 

Then someone noticed. Selaphiel came down from Heaven, brandishing his true form at Yuuri like a weapon. He didn't even lift a finger or pull out a sword when he invaded their home that night, that horrible night. Halfway across the world as he worked, he felt Yuuri's pain and tried to offer him strength through their bond, but he was far too gone. He rushed back home, just in time to see the remains of Yuuri's beautiful eyes smoking after disintegrating for the mistake of witnessing an archangel's true form. 

Yuuri's name was not on Victor's fingers until the very moment he passed, a hot brand searing into his skin. 

Victor's eyes locked upon Selaphiel. Rage and grief intermingled as his fingers twitched, longing for the familiar weight of his scythe. Maybe he should kill him, watching as the other archangel's life diminished to nothing but ashes. 

"What have you done?" Victor accused. He paused, his heart breaking at the very scene. “Selaphiel, why?”

"Because eventually, he will be with child. We know Nephilims can't be born. I will not see you fallen like the others."

Victor paused at that thought. He remembered Michael’s decree, the ban on Nephilims and the resulting Great Flood. "He's a witch."

"And what comes out of your union will be more powerful than a regular Nephilim. We know what happened the last time Nephilims existed. The Great War was fought over such matters. I don't want to see you like Lucifer, sitting alone in a cage and waiting for the Apocalypse with only the voice of demons for company." 

Victor stared at him. Yes, he knew Selaphiel cared for Victor, loving him like how an older brother loved his younger sibling. But this. This was an inexcusable act. "You don't understand, Selaphiel. What we have is pure. It's nothing comparable to when our brothers stole away the daughters and sons of man in rage and envy and lust." 

One clear example was the woman Lucifer stole away from her tribe. She already had a husband, but Lucifer interfered anyway, upon seeing her attractiveness. She bore him a son, a small thing she timidly brought to Lucifer. It was amusing, for a single moment, when the son threw up on Lucifer’s lap. Amusing. Then she died with Lucifer smiting the very place she stood and blaming her for his son’s minor transgression. Victor collected her soul. 

Selaphiel pointed at Yuuri’s body, the awful sight on the bed. "This is a warning. The second time you come close to procreation, I'll strike faster than you imagine."

Summoning his best death glare, Victor inhaled deeply, his power swarming the very air. Electrifying. "If there is justice in this world, Selaphiel, then one day. . . One day, you'll understand my pain, the tearing of my heart, the loss of an unconditional, beautiful love. That's the price you'll pay for murder." It broke Victor’s heart to say that, cracking it even further and splintering into millions of little pieces. 

This was something, is something, that will haunt Selaphiel for a long time. 

From the widening look in Selaphiel’s eyes, the other angel knew it too. 

"He will come back," said expressionlessly Selaphiel. "I know he will reincarnate. You won't resist him. But maybe you will think twice about mating."

"So much for being the Archangel of Hope," Victor seethed, suddenly so tired. He climbed onto the bed and pulled Yuuri’s body into his arms, feeling the witch’s soul flutter within the rib cage. So he had not left yet to wander the shores of Japan, waiting for the day he’ll be reborn. Victor held him tighter, hoping the soul wouldn’t leave him just yet. 

Selaphiel offered an olive branch. "Perhaps there is an option for you both. Rapture. It'll probably break the magic, severing him from the rest of his family."

"I can't possibly do that." He would not offer that to Yuuri. Never. A greedy option, taking Yuuri away from his beloved family forevermore until the end of earth. It made him no better than Lucifer. 

"Convince the witch who cast the reincarnation spell to remove it. You can have him in Heaven, and no one will dare to separate the two of you,” Selaphiel tried. 

Mari barely knew what she was casting all those centuries ago. How could she possibly know to unravel it? 

"Any other options?" Victor ran his fingers through the silky locks of his beloved’s hair. 

Selaphiel hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. "Our Creator may consider helping. If you prayed for help."

Victor remembered how it felt, being watched by the Creator as he came into existence. A hint of fear, a breath inhaled but never released. A dead weight floating upon both of their heads. "We have not seen our Creator since the beginning of time. What is to say our Creator is not dead?"

Selaphiel didn’t answer that. 

"You can leave, Selaphiel."

He did not move. "There is one other option."

“Yes?” 

"The Apocalypse will deteriorate the state of this world. Eventually, everything here will be destroyed. Including the reincarnation spell. You can reunite with him in Heaven, live freely there."

Victor closed his eyes. Yes. The Apocalypse. Perhaps the only option that will work out of them all. He only had to wait, patiently waiting for the days of the earth to end. He could do that, he knew. As Death, he waited for many people to die, lingering for their hourglasses to run out. Waiting for the Apocalypse? This was very little to ask. 

Selaphiel finally left, flying off. 

A moment later, Makkachin timidly wandered in. She saw and knew what had unfolded. Sitting down, she tilted her head back and howled for a long time. Somewhere in the distance, another hellhound howled back, singing a song of grief and loss. 

“I know,” Victor whispered, staring at his pet hellhound and clutching his love and his soul in his arms surrounded by the shattered remains of their home. “I feel the same.” But he held hope in his heart, strangely enough. Yuuri would eventually be reborn. He would return to him one day. 

The Katsuki family did their burial rituals for Yuuri, Hiroko turning the witch into thousands of petals of cherry blossoms as per family tradition. Years passed. Yuuri’s soul wandered their home and the land, never straying too far away from Victor, tied to Victor even beyond death. The soul never acknowledged Victor's presence and his words, but he did seem to glow happily at the alpha. 

Victor felt nothing from their bond. It was as if Yuuri didn't exist. He didn't know if Yuuri was afraid or cold, he didn't know what he could even do. It wasn't as if Victor could grasp him like all the other souls, hold him in the palms of his true form. 

In the next life, Victor didn't want to wait for Yuuri to grow up. But he had to. He couldn't help but watch Yuuri chasing Vicchan through the sand, laughing when Yuuri miscast his spells as an older teenager, and frowning when he felt a deep strumming of anxiety echoing across their bond. Seeing Yuuri soothed him, calming the distant echo of the screeching psychic feedback he received so many years ago. Yes, Yuuri was alive and well. He only had to look to confirm this. 

He finally made his approach to the Katsuki family at the turn of the century. Mari listened to his story, learning of their family's reincarnation and his marriage to Yuuri less than a century ago. 

She shook her head. Her next words sent a stab through his heart. "I don't believe your story. It's fantastic, but reincarnation isn't possible. I must ask you to leave Yutopia." 

He would have obeyed. But then he saw Yuuri, latching upon the omega's scent like it was the only thing he needed. Losing himself, he seized him by the wrist and whispered, "Yuuri. Do you remember?" 

"I. . ." The omega did not say another word before Mari dived in between them. 

"No, I said leave," the witch barked. She threw him out, her magic exploding in front of Victor's face. It took him a few minutes to unravel her transformation spell as he struggled in his tree form. 

It became a thing. Somehow, Mari noticed whenever Victor came to check up on Yuuri's health. Five times while he was in camouflage mode, she noticed. Never did he once consider that maybe he probably should stop. It grew to a frightening urge, the temptation to talk to Yuuri, to _ask_ if he remembered anything about Victor and the two of them. He probably would have stopped if it wasn't for the deep feeling of concern for Victor slipping through the bond while he was turned into a black bear by Mari. 

So he suffered while getting turned into animals, each consecutive animal smaller than the one before it. He pushed through it, finally falling at Hiroko Katsuki's feet and begging for only one moment of Yuuri's time. He could have stolen one moment like a thief, slipping into the hot springs while Yuuri was cleaning. But the Katsuki family would have never forgiven him for that. 

When Mari died, Victor made his approach to Yuuri himself, every curve of the omega more beautiful than what he remembered. His breath caught. Even older than the last time Victor saw him, Yuuri was so gorgeous, breathtaking. 

But he was tired. 

They both were. 

At Yutopia, Victor found him menially cleaning the hot springs. “Yuuri,” he breathed, his heart beating in his throat. 

Yuuri looked at him once. Then he glanced away. 

"Please, I want to talk to you,” Victor begged, following the witch. 

“You don’t have anything to say to me. You come here the day after my sister dies, hoping you can have a piece of me,” Yuuri accused, shaking his head at the alpha. He turned away from Victor. “Just like what everyone else wants. I can smell you.”

“Yuuri, let me explain.” 

“No. You turn your back and leave this place.”

“Please, a moment of your time.”

Yuuri hissed, “Absolutely no. I made a promise to my sister to never speak to you. I don't know what creative story you told her, but she did not believe it.” With a wave of his hand, Yuuri’s magic surged, rising at the alpha. 

Then Victor couldn’t see. 

"Now I change you into stone. This is in the honor of my beloved sister, Mari Katsuki,” Yuuri coldly said. 

A pause. 

Then he looked back and added, "I hope you court the next omega better than this." 

It took so long for Victor to break Yuuri’s spell. When he finally broke it, he flew back home, to their remodeled home and cried. 

Rejected so thoroughly, he couldn't bear to see Yuuri in the next life, even as he occasionally received flashes of emotions from his mate. His heart sank at the constant feeling of longing underneath the burst of brief happiness, joy, and sadness. And when Yuuri passed and his soul returned to their home, wandering through the waves, Victor resolved to learn the proper way of human courting, to be an upstanding suitor for Yuuri. 

He spied on a few Japanese couples, watching as they offered thoughtful courting gifts. It wasn't something he used to consider. He used to only pay attention to the burial rites of the dead and the changing, ever-evolving methods of murder. But if he wanted Yuuri, wanted to see him again, wanted to speak to him again, he'd have to approach him and his family the proper way. He could not speak about their past, not without the Katsuki family believing him to be insane. 

So he worked. 

He came as a guest, no one blinking an eye at his foreign features. He came again, spending the night as he waited to see Yuuri. It wasn't until the third night when Yuuri, instead of Mari, served sake to the guests. 

It was magic, the moment their hands touched for the first time. This, this was what Victor has been missing for decades. To Yuuri, he expressed his intention and demonstrated his suitability. It was like a dance, a strange sort of dance that had delicate, careful movements. One step, and Victor was out. 

He easily married Yuuri, his parents throwing a banquet. Different townspeople, but it did not matter. He had Yuuri’s hand in his palms, and he could have Yuuri once again. It would be alright. 

But when the witch’s heat came, Victor reluctantly pulled away. He pulled away every time Yuuri tried to initiate, even when it hurt his heart to refuse Yuuri. Selaphiel’s words echoed over and over again through his head, as if the archangel was only whispering through his ear, hovering behind his back. 

_This is a warning. The second time you come close to procreation, I'll strike faster than you imagine._

Yuuri noticed. He tried to initiate, storming out of their home upon Victor’s refusal. His scent was mixed with rejection and anger. 

"Wait! Yuuri!" Victor cried. He finally caught up with the omega on the beach, ocean waves wetting their clothes. 

"What?" spat Yuuri, spinning around to face Victor. He was crying, tears flowing down his lovely cheeks. 

"Yuuri, I'm sorry, but I don't know what I did wrong if you don't tell me." 

Victor was a fool. Still a fool. But he was too stupid, too blind, to not see that his lack of actions or words were hurting Yuuri then. Yuuri may had been temporarily satisfied with Victor’s hands and mouth, but he wanted more than what Victor could offer. 

"Victor, you brought me here a year ago. To this place, this wonderful place. You convinced my parents and my sister of your sincerity, but every night, you do not touch me like how a man touches his husband. Am I not good enough for you?"

Oh. 

It was as if a light went off in Victor’s head. “Yuuri.” 

"Is that why? Tell me why so I can see clearly. I know you do feel something for me. Last night was evidence of that, but all you did was pull away."

“Yuuri. It’s complicated.” 

"Is that why? Tell me why so I can see clearly. I know you do feel something for me. Last night was evidence of that, but all you did was pull away." 

"It's a long story you wouldn't believe. A story you can't believe." 

How could Yuuri believe? He knew nothing about Lucifer, Michael, Gabriel, his other brothers. He didn’t know who the Creator was or even the concept of the Creator. 

Then Victor heard Selaphiel’s voice again. 

_This is a warning. The second time you come close to procreation, I'll strike faster than you imagine._

"Do not turn away from me! I deserve to know!"

Then Victor burst into flames. If Victor wasn’t Death or an angel, he would have been dead. A small dip into the sea easily wiped away Yuuri’s spell and washed away the tattered remains of Victor’s clothes. Victor, climbing out of the sea, wiped the sea water out of his eyes. He felt the apology, the remorse coursing through their one-way bond. 

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I deserve that,” Victor admitted. “I haven't been the best husband."

"That's not true," Yuuri said, tired. "But every time I get close to you, you seem to push me away. I just want to know why. Don't I deserve that much?"

_This is a warning. The second time you come close to procreation, I'll strike faster than you imagine._

“I. . .” Victor thought, watching the afternoon sun. "I don't want children. I'm sorry."

It was a lie. Still a lie. 

But Yuuri’s sorrow slowly drew back, the one-way bond briefly granting Victor a glance into Yuuri’s head. He was relieved, relieved that it wasn’t him. Yuuri raised an eyebrow, clearly feeling lighter. He pivoted, hips seductively swaying at the alpha. With a loud voice, he called back, beckoning, “Well, there’s more than one way to make love, Victor.” 

They obtained a bottle of clove oil the next day. 

When Yuuri came, his length deep inside Victor, the alpha nearly wept at the intimacy he didn't know he had been missing for so long. He held Yuuri close to his heart, never wanting to let go. 

But he had to.

"I love you," he whispered over thirty years later, leaning into Yuuri's ear. His hands were written with names. But only one mattered the most. Yuuri Katsuki, Matsura County. 

"I know." 

He had to let go. Because Yuuri passed away peacefully in his sleep, younger than Victor wished. Then. In a blink of Victor's eye, Yuuri was reborn, a bright phoenix rising from the dead. 

It was during the spring of a new century when Yuuri took him to the gathering of trees a little distance away from Hasetsu. There was a ring set up, tied to the ground by magic. 

"We use it to train witches when they're young," Yuuri explained, his face strangely reddening. He nervously played with the loose ends of his yukata. "Mari and I, we set it up yesterday." 

Victor’s interest was piqued. “Oh?” Why did they need to set it up? He wondered for a moment, but then he sat on a boulder and waited for the witch to unravel the surprise. 

“This is a. . .” Yuuri coughed. Then he tried again. “It's a. . . Please watch me,” he begged, bowing to Victor. 

Victor promised, "I will."

Always will. 

Yuuri’s next words left Victor breathless. "Don't take your eyes off me.”

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Then he danced, moving and flowing through the air with magic. Air, water, fire, earth. Victor’s most favorite part of the dance was watching Yuuri in motion, his heart leaping when Yuuri took flight. He moved carefully, every step considerate yet appearing so effortless. When Yuuri finished, panting and unsure, Victor couldn’t contain himself. He praised it, words of approval easily falling off his lips. 

They married. 

It was easier to lie to Yuuri this time, to deny the witch children. The witch accepted it, though it hurt Victor so to see him stare longingly at the small children playing together at the market. Because in the depths of Victor's heart, he wanted the same thing. 

But. Selaphiel. 

_This is a warning. The second time you come close to procreation, I'll strike faster than you imagine._

He would never let Yuuri be harmed. 

Then it was 1597 AD. 

Their wedding again, interfered by a growing tsunami that would never kill a single life thanks to the exemplary efforts of one Mari Katsuki. 

In the phantom timeline, he could see them all dead. In the most original timeline, he saw the deaths of all the descendants of the Katsuki family, the ones who should have been born if it wasn't for the reincarnation spell. 

Victor lived and loved at the side of so many different versions of Yuuri. But each version has no memories of the other. It became incredibly apparent in the aftermath of Yuuri's heat with Victor turning over excitedly, nearly saying, "Remember the time we went to Hasetsu and scared your sister out of her wits when we appeared right into the kitchen?" 

But this Yuuri. Victor just married him. He had no memories of this. 

It got worse. 

“Remember when Makkachin jumped on us while we were intimate? All those claws on that girl,” he said, clucking his tongue at his pet hellhound. They were arguing about whether or not Makkachin deserved another chicken for dinner. 

“Uh, no?” 

And there was this, too. 

“Hey, solnyshko, don’t you remember when I first ate katsudon you made and I couldn’t stop eating for the rest of the night? I just wanted to eat more.” 

Yuuri blinked in confusion. “No?” 

Another day, Victor slipped behind Yuuri, hands wrapping around the witch’s stomach. He kissed the witch at his neck, right where the mating bite left a scar. “Remember when we danced all night under the moonlight? You were terrible at the European dances.” 

The 17th-18th century version of Yuuri turned around, slipping out of Victor’s arms. “Uh, no? I was never terrible at European dances.” He gave a long look of pure bewilderment at the alpha. 

It was true. 17th-18th century Yuuri knew quite a few of European dances due to the occasional foreign traveler visiting Yutopia. Then time sped up, the turn of the new century making an appearance and the Americans bringing their warships to forcibly open the Japanese borders. The might of Japan quickly expanded afterwards, the Japanese leaders knowing they were vulnerable and weak compared to the outsiders. 

Then the Russo-Japanese War happened. Victor worked as a doctor, and he met Yuuri by chance, who served as a witch nurse on the Japanese side. They worked together under the careful watch of the Japanese soldiers, but Victor. . . It pained Victor every time when he turned and couldn’t make an inside joke with Yuuri. He was only met with a curious, polite look on Yuuri’s face as he tilted his head in confusion. 

Victor hated it. He wanted Yuuri to remember the fine details of their life together. He wanted Yuuri to remember, to know their love. He wanted to see Yuuri grow fat with their child slumbering within. He wanted to see their child run along the sands, against the waves roaring on their private beach in Matsuura. 

It all changed the day Christophe sent him a telegram. 

He met up with Christophe during the Great War in Switzerland. He arrived at a bar, his wool coat tucked tightly against the Swiss winter. He pulled off his hat as he found Christophe in the corner, helping himself to an entire table. 

“Christophe,” he greeted. 

“Victor.” He tipped his chin and then waved at the server for another bottle of alcohol. “It seems the end of the world has come upon us.” 

The angel froze at that. “Apocalypse?” He could barely breathe, so full of hope. He recalled what Selaphiel said a long time ago, several lifetimes ago. 

_The Apocalypse will deteriorate the state of this world. Eventually, everything here will be destroyed. Including the reincarnation spell. You can reunite with him in Heaven, live freely there._

“Yes,” Christophe spat. “The Apocalypse. Lilith is calling for her forces to gather. Apparently, Lucifer told her it was time to begin the process of curating the humans for an antichrist.” He downed an entire bottle without a care and then narrowed his eyes at the other man. “You’re actually happy about this.” 

“Yes,” Victor admitted. 

The demon leaned in, unpleased. “The entire world is going to be wiped out. Humans are improving their sex lives! The vibrator! They’re improving on the vibrator! Humanity, civilization, technology. Think of all those things. Knowledge!” He knew he was not convincing Victor at all. “Victor, old friend. The Apocalypse is a friend to no one. Not even to Lucifer.” He angrily pushed at his hair. “It’s not going to be a great party for Lucifer. There is a fifty percent chance he loses.” 

“Greater,” Victor said. “Michael is older than him. Skillful. He is a general and the most powerful archangel of all. Put his chances at seventy percent. Lucifer only has tricks and deceit on his side.” 

“I don’t want any Apocalypse.” A pause. “Is this about your Marya?” 

“How did you even know Chris?” interrupts Yuuri, blinking slowly. He’s quite close to falling asleep. Once he sleeps, he’ll wake up with his heat blazing. Victor knows this. He has seen this pattern exist for almost a thousand years. 

“Well. Chris didn’t convince me of anything in 1917. He only told me that the Apocalypse was coming, and Lilith was setting the gears into motion. I actually met him all the way back in the 12th century.” 

In a tavern of rural France during the 12th century, he was waiting for a drunk sitting at a dingy bar to die. He came a little earlier than expected. 

Chris saw him. He was the only one who noticed Victor. 

He waved at the barmaid and ordered a drink. “Two glasses. The other for my sad friend here,” he said to her, gesturing to Victor with a tilt of his head. 

The barmaid frowned but took his coin. She didn’t see Victor. 

Victor was startled. “You can see me?” 

“You smell of depression,” the demon said with a purr, pushing a glass of alcohol to the other man. “Come and sit. We can talk, and let’s see if I can make all of your wishes come true.” 

Death smiled at that as he followed the demon to a secluded table. No demon could break Mari Katsuki's spell. But perhaps, it would be amusing to see this demon try. "I'm Victor." 

"Elias." The demon flashed a hungry grin. "So, _cheri,_ tell me all your problems." 

"My husband is dead," Victor said, cutting straight to the chase. "Killed by a powerful being." 

"I can bring your husband back from the dead," the demon suggested. 

"My husband is like a phoenix. He will come back." 

"Oh," the demon said, shrinking a little in disappointment. "Then what can I do for you? Kill your husband's killer?" 

"Can't do. He's my brother."

The demon whistled. Then he waved at the barmaid. "I think you need at least two more drinks." He watched the barmaid set down four cups of frothing beer. "You are not human," he declared. 

"I thought it was obvious." 

"No, I thought you were partially insane at first. You don't feel like you have powers, but I can sense it now." 

"What does your senses say?" 

The demon flashed a grin. "Run and never look back. That's what they say." 

"You're not running." 

"You haven't killed me yet, so I'm pushing my luck," the demon said. "And I have not yet seen anyone turn down free alcohol. I figure I have a little while to live." 

Victor snorted. "You are also curious." 

"You caught me. I've never seen anything like you before." The demon paused. "Are you a god?" 

"Isn't it rude to ask what another man is?" 

"Oh, but you're not a man." 

The demon was correct. "You can call me Koschei." 

"Like Koschei the Deathless?" At Victor's surprised look, the demon shrugged. "I do business in the east. They love their stories."

"Not many demons bother to learn the stories told by humans." 

The demon grinned, raising his mug to Victor. "And so our masks come off. But what are you, not-Koschei the Deathless?" 

At that moment, the drunk Victor was waiting for stumbled over. He coughed, throwing up the contents of his stomach. He kept hurling, choking and turning a frightening shade of purple. 

Victor merely raised an eyebrow, lifting his beer to his lips. 

The demon looked mildly concerned at the sight of the drunk. "That one is about to die. Maybe in a few minutes." 

He shook his head. "Ten seconds." 

The drunk stumbled again, possessing two left feet. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He tripped over a stool, brushing against Victor's shoulder. He was dead before he hit the floor. 

"You're Death, the reaper," the demon realized. 

"He knew from the very moment he saw you," Yuuri says, irritation in his voice. "I had to play a guessing game with you. Like throwing darts and hoping one sticks to your face." 

"Yuuri, I was on duty and he put the puzzle together as soon as he saw me collect that man's soul. If he didn't, he would have spent a long time trying to figure out what I am." He pauses. "But that was how I met Chris." 

"He said his name was Elias?" 

"His real name, the birth name, is Chris," Victor reveals. "Yes, he was happy when I directed him to a soulless body named Chris in the fifties. He missed being called by his original name at times." 

"But you still haven't explained, Victor. Explained why it seems like I'm following you to Seoul and other places. And you haven't explained why you followed me in this life." 

"I think it's a combination of our wedding vow and our bond," Victor answers. "Mostly our bond. I always have an awareness, a sort of knowing when it comes to you. No matter how far you go. You could be on the other side of the world, and I'll know which direction to fly. Like a homing signal." 

"But how do I know?" 

"Maybe you have the same? I don't know why you followed me to Seoul. It was a surprise to me when you arrived in South Korea." 

"You knew?" 

"You felt closer. I knew you were in the same city as me the moment you arrived." 

They worked at the same university. Victor always saw Yuuri. He didn't think the witch saw him, though. He never looked in Victor's direction, not even once. Always busy with armfuls of books and scrolls, rushing from the research building to the campus coffee shop. He might have never met Yuuri if it wasn't for Dr. Kim, a young physician, who invited Victor out for drinks at a party. 

He went, but only because other doctors were joining in the festivities as well. He quickly lost them as soon as his nose picked up a familiar scent. 

_Yuuri._

Blindly brushing through swarms of people, Victor finally found him spinning on a portable stripper pole with only a pair of black boxers on. He was stunned, his drink in his hand long forgotten as it splashed onto someone's shoes. He didn't care. His eyes were locked upon Yuuri. 

"So that was what I was doing that night?" Yuuri grabs a pillow, hiding away his blushing face in the present moment. "I am never drinking again. I woke up the next morning with bruises all over my legs and a lot of bills in my pocket." 

"I know. I helped you back to your apartment." 

"I'm glad smartphones were not invented during that time," Yuuri mutters, moaning with agony. "Wait. You helped me back?" 

He did. But not before dancing with Yuuri, who, despite being drunk, grinded all over Victor. He blabbed in Japanese about Vicchan, which was adorable. He asked Victor if he owned any pets and then grinned, rapidly suggesting a pet date with Makkachin. Then he leaned against Victor's chest and swayed to the beat of a slow song, yawning as he stood. "Take me home, Victor," he said, exhausted. 

So Victor helped him back. Later, in the privacy of his apartment, he smiled, so reminded of the very first time he met Yuuri. Like coming full circle. 

"How did I start a fight?" Yuuri says, eyes widening. "Someone told me I indirectly caused a fight." 

"I remember the professor getting body slammed by a drunk student that night. It wasn't that bad, but I think it's partially because you said the professor was very kind. But it's not really your fault. The issues that caused that one-sided fight were already there."

Yuuri dunks his head hard on the pillow. "But I drank and danced all night with you." 

"Yes." 

"I remember none of it. There is so much I don't remember." 

"Yuuri," Victor says, grabbing the witch's hand. "It's okay. I made my peace with it. It doesn't matter. What matters is the moment, the present."

Yuuri nods slowly, perhaps not believing it yet. A few minutes later, and then he whispers, "The scar." 

"Huh?" 

"The old mating bite." 

Victor's cheeks blush. "Yes." 

"It doesn't look right." 

Somewhere in between Yuuri's words, Victor's brain flies out of the window. He blurts out, "I promise myself not to offer. But. You can refresh it. If you would like." 

A soft snore answers Victor. 

"Sleep," murmurs Victor, pressing an indirect kiss with his finger to Yuuri's forehead. He has things to buy, stores to rush to, a heat to prepare for. It's been so long since he has supplied and cared for Yuuri's heat that he nearly skips as he makes a mad flight throughout Matsuura for ingredients, lubes, and toys. And condoms. He picks up a day after pill. Just in case. 

Condoms work most of the time, but he sometimes feel Selaphiel's breath on his neck, whispering at him. Just waiting for him to make a mistake. 

A sharp wave of lust and need sings through the bond. Victor quickly grabs a few bottles of juice and flies to Yuuri's side, fingers reaching to the witch. He reassures, "Yuuri, I am here." 

"Need you," the witch moans, three fingers shamelessly pumping his slick entrance. His eyes are lidded, viewing the alpha through his eyelashes. "Victor, come here. Join me." He lifts away the blankets, showing Victor his wet, dripping entrance. 

Victor inhales the musky scent of his slick. Oh, has he missed this. His eyes can't drink enough of Yuuri, of the pink flush on his face, of the slick slowly dripping down his thighs to permanently ruin Victor's sheets. Victor doesn't. He doesn't mind at all. His fingers reach out to Yuuri, almost as if unsure. His fingers dance across the incredibly soft skin of Yuuri's shoulder, and he falls onto the bed. 

"Why do you have so many layers?" Yuuri complains, stripping off Victor's collared shirt. He dramatically sighs when he finally gets it off, yanking it off the alpha's arms. Running his palms over the alpha's chest, he murmurs, "I have been dreaming of this for so long." 

Has he? Is it because of dream magic? 

Victor doesn't get a chance to ask before he's thrown supine by the eager omega grinding against his clothed member. 

"So many clothes," Yuuri complains, fingers dipping back into himself. Slick drips from his hole, staining Victor's black slacks. Victor wouldn't have it any other way. 

"Take it off." 

Eyes hooded, he snaps his finger. Victor's pants disappear to some place unimportant. Then he grins at Victor's underwear. "A skimpy black thong?" He draws the alpha in for a hot kiss, their lips meeting for the first time in decades. 

"Do you like it?" Victor whispers, suddenly unsure. 

"Keep it on," Yuuri replies, hand yanking aside the small fabric. His eyes briefly widen upon seeing the alpha's erect cock. In a small voice, he says, "It looks better in reality than in my dreams." 

Yuuri dreams of his dick? 

He has _so many_ questions now. 

But he doesn't ask when Yuuri's hand curls around the girth. 

"You like eating me out," Yuuri notes, crawling down until his mouth is merely inches away from Victor's dick. His ass sticks up, its cheeks plump and tempting. "Most of the time, you eat me?" 

"Yes," the alpha confirms, panting at the small strokes of Yuuri's hand. 

"Then I'll return the favor." 

Victor stops himself from reaching for Yuuri's hair. His back bangs against the headboard as Yuuri's hot wet mouth sucks the very tip of his cock. His head knocks against the headboard, mouth gasping at the swirls of Yuuri's tongue. Yuuri can't fit all of him into his mouth; no, his gag reflex sees to that. But he is so enthusiastic as he sucks away all the precum, bestowing one little kiss at the slit. 

Yuuri licks his lips, his eyes blown wide. Dilated. His slick-stained hand grasp Victor’s chin, his words almost slurring as if drunk. “Don’t you dare take your eyes off me.” 

Oh, he couldn't. He never could. 

He watches, enthralled, as Yuuri sits up and grabs a condom off the nightstand. 

With his teeth, he rips the package wide open with a ferocious smile, every edge and curve convicted and confident. The condom slips over Victor's bulbous head and is rolled down over the shaft. "No excuses, Victor. To not fill me up," he whispers, his breath dancing over the alpha's cheek. He lines himself over Victor's cock, slowly sinking himself down like a powerful conqueror seizing new land. 

Victor's instincts sing. _Yes, yes, breed him, fill him up, leave him fat with children._ Even with the condom on, he plunges deep into Yuuri, moaning at the tight, plush heat wrapped around his cock. He mourns the condom, unable to feel the soft skin of Yuuri's walls. But this is good, this is coming home. He drinks Yuuri's sharp gasps as he drives himself deeper, turning their positions so Yuuri rests on his fours. 

He draws back, pulling himself until only the tip remains inside Yuuri's slicked entrance. Then he mounts, groaning at the way the witch's hole hungrily tightens around his length. He snaps his hips, pounding away at Yuuri and leaving faint pink marks of his fingernails on Yuuri's hips. 

Words fall from Yuuri's lips, his musical Japanese syllabus slurred. "Ah, Victor. So thick, fill me up so good." 

"You're so tight, Yuuri," Victor groans, listening to the lewd squelch of slick and the slapping of skin. He growls, "You're never leaving me again, ah! Going to fill you up." 

"Do it," Yuuri pants, turning his head back. "Do it, _Vitenka."_

And at the sweet sound of his old nickname, the one Yuuri used so long ago and Victor has nearly forgotten, Victor pulls out, drawing out a protest from Yuuri’s lips. No, he wants to see his omega. He wants to watch his face, witness his unraveling. He lines himself up, the omega’s legs spread underneath him. His hole winks, pink, wet, and gaping with want. Victor can’t resist himself, bringing up a finger of slick to his mouth for a taste, as he plunges into Yuuri’s hole over and over. Yuuri’s face flushes, his eyes unfocused. 

“You taste so good, solnyshko.” It tastes like the waters flowing through the Garden of Eden, so full of life and filled with Yuuri’s essence. 

Tightening around Victor’s cock, Yuuri suddenly surges up, his mouth searching for the familiar spot on Victor’s neck. He bites down, renewing the bond. 

And there— 

His knot expanding in Yuuri’s hole, Victor acts upon instincts. Once upon a time, a mating bite left a definite scar at the base of the witch’s neck. 

Lifting his head, he smiles at the fresh mark on Yuuri’s neck. He sighs in relief, his arms cocooning his sleepy mate. Their relationship has been constantly shifting from various stages, changing like the tides of the ocean and the faces of the moon, but this intimacy, this fire, this passion, this closeness is the one thing that has always remained the same. 

With Yuuri in his arms, he's finally home. 


	10. Jonathan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yellow by Coldplay

“Yuuri,” Victor says, whispering into his ear. “I have to get up.” 

“Mmm,” the witch mumbles, languishing in the alpha’s warmth, reminiscent of a cat lounging on a radiator. “One more minute,” he begs, pulling the alpha even tighter around himself. His heat has been temporarily sated, but he loves intimacy, the feeling of being wrapped so tight and warm, as if he'll never be let go, as if he can stay here forever. 

He laughs. “Yuuri, you said that a minute ago. And the minute before that minute. I have to go to work. To the hospital. I’ll get myself out of tomorrow’s and the next day’s shift, but I really have to do today’s, okay?” 

Eyelids glued together, Yuuri sighs, turning over and letting the alpha go. “Okay,” he mutters, face in his pillow. His words are mumbled. “But you better come home soon.” 

It takes Yuuri an hour before he feels somewhat awake. Shoving in his slicked hole a toy Victor bought, a nice blue dildo that doesn't hold a light to Victor's, Yuuri grabs his plugged phone off the nightstand and blinks at the four hundred notifications just from text messages alone. He hits Phichit's first and begins to backread. He ignores what appears to be the hamsters' texts, which consist of something like  _ dhnfksuajamfhfne asksksk.  _ This is what happens when Phichit leaves his phone out and doesn't feed them on time. They stage a revolt on Phichit’s phone. 

Phichit's real texts are dated an hour after Victor flew them to Matsuura. It comprises of  _ Yuuri, are you okay? We got reports that the suspect was in your apartment.  _

Two minutes later.  _ Agent Nekola from the FBI says you went with a Victor Nikiforov. He has photocopies of Victor's IDs?  _

_ You're almost in heat!?!  _

_ Yuuri, are you boning your unofficial suspect?  _

_ I approve.  _

_ Call me back when you're done getting railed.  _

Then there are a series of eggplant, water droplets, peach emojis and the Lenny face. Then more texts written by one of Phichit's hamsters.  _ Asefjiksldfi sdfkjwefiwo jsdfsdfs _

Yuuri makes a call to Phichit. The other witch picks up in two rings. "Hey, Phichit. Give Agent Nekola my thanks for keeping an eye out for me." 

"Yuuri, did you get the dick?" 

The witch dryly remarks, unable to resist a smile, "Yes, thank you so much for asking how I was doing. Your caring and concerned question touched my heart." 

"Pft, so you did get the dick." 

"Phichit!" Yuuri protests. 

"We figured you were probably fine, because Agent Nekola described that you were sound of mind and knew Victor's occupation and name, so he wasn't greatly concerned. I mean, most of us thought you were fine. Leo hacked your phone's GPS just to make sure, and it was near Hasetsu, Japan, so it's probably not that dangerous. Your phone was getting charged. If it was a serial killer, your phone would be dead." 

"How's work? Morooka in our prison?" 

"Yeah, we finished all the transfer paperwork yesterday. Court case hearing date, two months from now. Yakov still needs your report about the incident. He's not happy with the statement you left with Agent Nekola." 

Yuuri rolls his eyes at that. Yakov is never happy about anything. "Yes, I'll be back to work as per usual and get the paperwork filled out. Tell him that." He can feel his heat coming back, slowly crawling back into full force. Where is Victor? 

Right, work. 

"Okay, I'll leave you to your heat. You better call when you're done." And before Yuuri can respond, he quickly adds, "Get yourself more dick, Yuuri Katsuki." Then he hangs up, crackling like a supervillain. 

Yuuri rolls his eyes at that. He can't get more dick until Victor comes back. Eyeing the wide selection of toys on the nightstand and the glass of water, he realizes it's not as if he  _ needs  _ Victor's dick to get off. But it would be nice to feel him plunging Yuuri's soft walls and spreading his hole so wide open that it gapes. He wants Victor to be here, longing crawling up his throat as arousal tiptoes up his spine. 

He conjures the thought, the image, of Victor holding the dildo, pounding and thrusting the silicon toy into him. The sound of his slick squelching against the toy sings in Yuuri's ear, and he directly inhales from Victor's pillow, breathing in the enthralling traces of the alpha's scent. When he shuts his eyes, he can pretend he's right besides Yuuri, grasping the dildo by the base. 

_ Doesn't it feel so good, Yuuri?  _

Yuuri jolts at the whisper. It feels as if Victor is right here, literally. But when he opens his eyes, he sees not a single soul. It takes a minute for him to return to the dildo, to ease the wanton cries of his heat. 

_ So naughty. Distracting me from my work,  _ Victor purrs.  _ Push it in deeper. Tell me how it feels.  _

The bond, or maybe Yuuri is going insane. Nonetheless, he obeys, crying out when the dildo sinks another inch as it bottoms out. "Not thick enough, ah!" 

_ What's thick enough then?  _

Yuuri lets out a shameless moan when he angles the silicon dildo just right. "You," he answers, his words guttural in the pillow. He eagerly plunges the dildo in, listening to the soft enthusiastic voice in his ear. 

_ Let me hear you unravel, solnyshko. _

So he obeys, canting his hips eagerly, as if Victor can see him right this moment presenting his ass, as if he can witness the lewd dripping of slick down his inner thighs. He breathes in the scent, the smell of rich dark chocolate and the faint touch of iron, and he comes with a cry, his hand wet. There’s a purr lingering at his ear. 

_ Very good, Yuuri. Rest now. Sleep.  _

So he does. 

* * *

When he comes to, he feels strangely bereft. A blanket has been placed over his warm shoulders, and the dildo he was abusing has been washed and laid out on the nightstand. The aroma of food, of soy sauce and green onions and all the things he hasn’t eaten for hours, wafts into the bedroom. Yuuri rubs his eyes and reaches for his glasses. Victor? 

After throwing on a comfy white bathrobe, he finds the alpha in the kitchen, cooking with an apron tied behind his back. Victor is dressed casually, only wearing a grey hoodie with black sweatpants. He is barefoot. 

“Did you. . .” Yuuri starts, unable to describe what he felt earlier. He leans against the doorway, his throat forming a lump at the beautiful sight of Victor frying something in a large pan. 

“Hmm?” Victor turns, offering a slice of raw meat to Makkachin. He smiles at the hellhound, who gulps the piece of raw pork up and eagerly drools for more from her doggy bed. “What did I do?”

“Our bond,” Yuuri says, trying again. He has never known that seeing Victor in a domestic setting is something he has always wanted. He thinks back to the moment, the incident earlier today. “Did you somehow talk to me?” 

“Yes. From the hospital in Madrid, actually,” answers Victor, switching off the stove. 

Yuuri’s eyes widens. “You can do that?” 

“Well, we always could once the bond completes itself. It is probably due to the age of our bond, if I have to guess a reason why it’s so strong.” 

“Did you. . .” Yuuri pauses. “Were you able to feel me when I was in trouble? Back when I was in Spain? Were you able to feel distress?”

“I was.” 

Folding his arms over his chest, Yuuri raises an eyebrow at that. "You didn't feel the urge to help?" 

Victor fishes the fried omelet infused with pork out of the frying pan. "I did, but I was in surgery at that time. I trusted that you were able to get out of the situation yourself. I didn't see your name on my hands." 

"You didn't see my name when the archangel killed me." A part of Yuuri wonders why does he care. It's not as if Victor was able to save him in the many lives he died. Like the one with the spider. He shakes his head. "I, never mind." 

Victor nods. Then he raises the plate, a peace offering of sorts. "Breakfast?" 

It's surreal to have Victor only drinking tea and eating jam at the breakfast table while Yuuri stuffs himself full of nutrients to keep up with the demands of the heat. Angels don't need food, but Yuuri would like for both of them to eat. At least, it'll soothe his instincts. 

"The Apocalypse." 

"Yes?" Victor sets his tea cup down. "What about it?" He speaks as if they're only discussing the weather, whether it'll be rain or shine tomorrow. 

"You won't stop it." 

"No." He pauses, as if choosing his words. "Sixty-seven seals have already been broken, I'm afraid. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't." 

"I don't want the Apocalypse to happen," Yuuri voices, soft. 

"I know." 

"Not even for me?" 

"Yuuri, what I want is for us to be together without having to hide from my siblings, from Michael himself, who will come down to personally slew any mates and children of angels. I don't want you to ever be in danger again. I don't want you to die again, again, and again. I know you love this world, but if it comes between you and the world, you know what I will choose." 

The witch nods, despite being unsatisfied with the answer. "Then you know I will be doing everything I can to stop the Apocalypse." 

"I know." The alpha's words are barely a whisper. There's a sad smile playing on his lips. "I wouldn't expect anything less." 

Despite the differences between them, Yuuri feels determined. Perhaps, there is a chance for Victor to help. He believes in him, hoping that he may still be convinced to change directions. As he's taken to bed by the alpha once again, he closes his eyes, arching his neck for the alpha. 

But until then, he'll enjoy this moment. 

* * *

"What were you? Mauled by a tiger?" Phichit whistles upon seeing the witch, sipping coffee to keep himself awake on that Friday morning. 

Yuuri tugs his collar, hoping it hides the bite marks Victor left. Probably not. The alpha is even more possessive and affectionate than an octopus utilizing all of its arms to squeeze a prey. He wanders into his temporary office, looking away from the other witch to hide the warm flush of his face. "I have a lot of things to catch up. Victor said sixty-seven seals have been broken?" 

Grinning broadly, Phichit invites himself to sit on the other side of Yuuri's desk. "I cornered your unofficial suspect a few days ago." 

"Phichit!" Yuuri splutters. He's surprised Victor didn't mention it at all. "You didn't have to!" 

"Friends check Facebook statuses to make sure their friends aren't dead. Best friends give shovel talks to the Grim Reaper himself." 

"Phichit, you did not." 

"Oh, I so did, but he didn't take it seriously," he says with a sigh. "Clearly, Arthur wasn't scary enough." The hamster himself pokes its head out of Phichit's breast pocket and makes a few clicks, as if deeply offended by Phichit's words. 

Sitting down in his chair with a wince, Yuuri flicks through the new thick pile of paperwork and folders and boxes placed on his desk. These were most definitely not there when he left for his heat. One of the paperwork is a blank form for an incident report. There’s a post-it, which is actually a halfhearted apology written by Georgi, saying something along the lines of  _ I'm sorry you had to get held up by our suspect and have to do paperwork as ordered by Yakov but I'm glad you got out of it okay.  _ Georgi is the only one who actually knows and has manners. Sometimes. 

"Can you bring me up to speed? On the case?" Yuuri grabs a blue pen. He might as well start on the report. 

Phichit gives him a long look. But he begins a recap. "While you were away, we got Morooka into one of our prisons. I hope you saw the text notification for a court day. Morooka the Younger is posting and publishing information we said on the Apocalypse case, so we can't really help about that. Georgi took over press duty. Mickey and Mila are still in Italy, stalking JJ and his friends. Isabella is still hunting down Lilith, but she's getting reckless. She's getting closer, but there's a lot of demons surrounding Lilith. It's getting dangerous." 

"How about Minako?" 

"Nowhere to be seen, but I'm guessing she's probably hiding somewhere nearby if she is the archangel and protector of Isabella. But one of Minako's last warnings was about not getting too close to Lilith. Because if she dies, then her role as the Prophet is passed onto the next in line." 

Yuuri frowns. "Sixty-sevens seals." 

"Chris said that, Isabella confirmed it. She saw the seal breaking two nights ago. They're almost done." 

"The last seal." 

"Is Lilith’s death," Phichit fills in. "Which is why Yakov has a standing portal at the Lyon station to Italy, where the Italian Interpol office set up a temporary portal in Rome. They'll be moving it close to Lilith once they break the next seal." 

"Lilith can't be killed. Not unless we want to break that seal."

Phichit nods in agreement. "It's why the hunters have been brought in. Demon hunters. They know the situation." 

"Does Yakov believe. . ." 

Phichit scoffs. "Nope, he still doesn't. He thinks it's just a bad case where there are a few dozen demons trying to start a myth. He's in a constant state of disbelief." 

That sums up their boss fairly well. A constant state of disbelief. 

"The problem with the seals is that Lilith has far too many henchmen and demon underlings. There are less than five hundred seals for her to poke, and there are not enough hunters who can hide ancient weapons or protect people of certain bloodlines to prevent the seals from breaking." 

"So we're stuck waiting for the last one to break." Yuuri shakes his pen, writing his incident report. The first part of it is always boring. It's the filling in of details and other such facts. For something that was terrifying in a moment, paperwork has an unique power of making the incident look so indifferent. Just another day where Yuuri Katsuki almost died. 

"Paperwork?" 

Yuuri sighs. "Yakov." 

"Oh." Phichit stands up awkwardly, hovering for a moment. "Okay, I gotta go. I have some work to do on my desk. Holler if you need any help." 

"Sure." 

Yuuri waves him off. Then he pushes up his eyeglasses and continues writing a brief summary of his ordeal with Morooka. Writing it out makes it seem like it happened to somebody else, and Yuuri just happened to be a witness. It's after lunch by the time Yuuri finally finishes the report and his analysis regarding the sigil and the Book of Mara. At this point, he will kill for something simple to eat. 

He ends up finding Victor leaning against a lamppost once he's cleared security for the building. Tilting his head, he squints, unable to recognize whether or not he's dreaming or hallucinating. Or maybe this is reality. Should he pinch himself? 

"Hungry, Yuuri?" Victor asks, raising an eyebrow. He's still dressed in his hospital scrubs with an ID card around his neck, looking far more delicious and tempting than he should be. 

"Did you fly here just to pick me up for lunch?" 

With a strangely happy smile, heart-shaped, Victor cheerfully confirms, "Anywhere you want in the world. But I was thinking of Matsuura. I don't think you've ever eaten in the dining room." He finishes that sentence with a confident wink. 

Yuuri freezes, and then he sternly says, "I'm eating at the sandwich place one street down. If you want to eat with me, you can. But I'm not going anywhere else." 

"Then how about for dinner?" Victor suggests, not missing a beat. "With the state of your apartment, I can offer you a bed." He adds, "Yuuri, I want you to know you have options." 

Oh, a great part of him wants to take this particular option. It's a nice option that will get him fed and waited upon, the exact same treatment he got while he was in heat under Victor's care. And it's not any old bed he'll end up in. It'll be Victor's bed, where he'll be treated so well that he will never want to leave. And this is all despite disliking, hating, disagreeing about Victor's opinion on the Apocalypse and his passive role in it. 

He has listened to Victor's story, the past he lived, and the timelines he sees. In his most honest opinion, Yuuri believes that it can't possibly hurt to change the time and the future for the better. Seeing what could have been could convince him of what was done is correct. However, there is also a downside to it, but every choice always has negative and positive consequences. What Yuuri has learned over the years is that it's better to seek improvement and betterment rather than simply hoping the cards will fall in the order he desires. 

Of course, there's no way Yuuri can't convince Victor if he doesn't spend time with him. Grand Canyon did not become the way it is today. It took millions of years for the elements of weather to shape the patterns and rock formations. Yuuri needs to be there to nudge Victor into the proper direction, to convince him that the end of the world is not a good thing for anyone. 

So he steps closer, close enough to breathe every note of Victor’s scent, and says, "Oh, I know. My landlord has been leaving text messages about insurance and damages all day. But the bed you're offering better not be located in the guest bedroom." 

Victor's eyes widen, clearly surprised by Yuuri's agreement. He watches as Yuuri begins the short walk to the sandwich house. "Wait, you mean. . ." 

"When do you get off from work?" 

Victor jogs, keeping up. "Six. And you?" 

"Five," Yuuri answers with a smile. "But I can work a little bit of overtime while you slave away at the hospital. You can pick me up after your work." 

"So. Dinner. Anywhere around the world?" 

"Nope. Home." The witch drinks in the pleased sparkle in the alpha's eyes. 

They order two sandwiches at the restaurant. Yuuri awkwardly eats while Victor merely sips from the iced tea, not even touching his own sandwich. The witch finally asks, "You're not eating?" 

"I don't need food to sustain myself." 

"It's a good sandwich," Yuuri tells him, somewhat offended on behalf of the sandwich. 

Victor smiles and grabs one half of his sandwich, placing it on Yuuri's half-empty plate. "Yuuri, it's more for you." 

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “But I feel guilty.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m eating and you’re not. Don’t you think it’s a little bizarre?” 

“We did that plenty of times during your heat,” Victor points out, completely unfazed by the topic of heat in a public space. 

“But,” Yuuri pauses, pulling together some words. He wants to tug his hair out, over this little social norm between people. People don’t eat in front of someone who is not eating at lunch. It feels incredibly impolite. “You took care of me during my heat. This is lunch. Outside.” 

Thankfully, Victor seems to get the gist and takes a small nibble out of the sandwich. He swallows. “I feel plenty guilty, because this isn’t going to you. I don’t need to eat.” 

“It makes me feel better.” 

At that, Victor seems to have no other comments or replies. He slowly takes a bite out of the sandwich, chewing as if he’s never chewed anything in his life. Yuuri knows that’s not true. He has seen him down a pint of chunky ice cream to determine if it tastes any good for Yuuri to eat during heat. 

"The archangels," Yuuri says. "I've been reading up about them." 

Victor sets down his sandwich. "Yes?" 

"You said you told Chris that Lucifer doesn't have much of a chance against Michael," the witch remembers. "Why?" 

"Well, Michael is stronger than him." 

"What's not to stop all the archangels from banding together and fighting him?" 

"Well, some aren't fighters," Victor patiently explains. "Like Raguel, he can impose judgement, but if anyone directly challenges him, anyone being Lucifer, he's not going to last very long. Age also plays into how powerful an archangel is." 

"So Michael is the oldest." 

"Yes," the alpha confirms. "Lucifer is the second oldest." He stares at Yuuri, his face expressionless. 

"Who is next? Raphael?" 

"Yes. Then Gabriel, Cassiel, Selaphiel, Uriel, and Raguel." A brief pained expression cuts in. "There's a few we lost in the first war. Two fell and lost their wings, three died. There remain to be only seven today." 

"But you were created before Uriel," Yuuri points out. "Shouldn't you be one?" 

"I'm Death," he says, as if that explains everything. 

"Yes, but you're created between two archangels. Before Uriel," Yuuri says, furrowing his eyebrows. 

"Well, some religions do name me as an archangel. Islam, actually. Azrael, angel of death. I don't use it like how Michael or Gabriel uses theirs. It's not truly my name, the name I picked for myself. It works, though. Occasionally, I hear prayers calling to that name." 

"So if I try. . ." 

"I prefer if you pray to my name, the one I picked," he says, his lips curled slightly. "But you don't even have to use my name." 

Yuuri's heart skips a beat, mind whirling. Does this mean Victor can hear his very thoughts? He voices, "Is it because of the bond?" 

The alpha startles. "No, I only feel flashes of emotions from the bond. Images if it's. . ." He doesn't describe the circumstances. "Well, images are rare. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen something through our bond. I can't hear what you hear or know any thoughts you may think. I'm not all-knowing or all-powerful. I'm an angel with a job that happens to be the most essential in the entire universe." 

Yuuri nods at this, sipping from the plastic straw of his tea. "Then. . . Do you know what I can feel or see from you through the bond?" 

Victor leans in, frowning as a finger thumbs his chin. "I believe you were able to pick up some of my emotions in the past. I don't know what you can pick up in this life." 

Fascinated, the witch probes, "You mean, every version of myself. . . We have differing levels of how strong our bond is." 

"Yes." 

"Huh." Yuuri doesn't even know what to say to that. It's not like he has any point of references. The bonds between humans only allow the bonder to pick up their partner's emotions but only when close by. Not over severe distances like Victor could. It's just another potential research field that will never get any funding because of lack of test subjects and significant data. One test subject will never be enough to draw significant conclusions. But he wonders aloud, "Do angels bond with each other?" 

Victor shakes his head. "It's looked down upon. But perhaps not as badly as a bond between an angel and a human." 

"Then how come we can get away with it?" 

"We didn't escape that fate. And then we did," Victor grimaces, lost in memories. There is only one moment in time he could be remembering. "When Selaphiel struck you down, I left a retributive curse on him. No angel or archangel since then has bothered coming around to tell us off. Besides. I've been. . . Careful." 

Yuuri nods, accepting of this. "I'm sorry." 

"What for?" 

"For bringing this up." 

The alpha shakes his head. "Don't be. If you want to know, then you should know. I only regret. . ." 

"What?" Yuuri prompts. 

"I only regret not being able to arrive faster. Or do something that night. Maybe I should have turned back the clock, reversed time and stopped Selaphiel in his tracks. I don't know. But I was so fixated on minimizing my own traces," he quickly says, cutting himself off. He reaches across the table and squeezes the witch's hand. "Sorry. I. . . I'm ruining your lunch." 

"Well," Yuuri drawls out, eyes scanning for a new topic. Anything to get them both out of this line of conversation. His eyes land on his empty plate. He frowns. "Do you want to eat anything?" 

Victor quirks an eyebrow, as if silently reminding Yuuri of the fact he doesn't need food for life. 

"I'm hungry." 

The alpha is quick to offer. "I can order another sandwich or a soup if you want. Salad, if you want something lighter. Or. . . Oh." His eyes notice Yuuri's hands grabbing his half of the sandwich. "Yuuri, you don't have to eat that. I chewed and bit on some parts." 

His protest falls on deaf ears. Yuuri happily gobbles up the other half, polishing it off in five bites. He slowly licks his fingers and raises an eyebrow at the alpha. "Stealing is more fun." 

Victor stares. 

Yuuri almost waves a hand in front of his face. Is he broken? Is he dying? 

Then finally, he says, "Why is someone stealing my sandwich oddly attractive?" 

Yuuri nearly snorts at that. "It better be only me," Yuuri replies without hesitation, his voice firm and convicted. 

“Of course. I don’t let anyone else steal my sandwich. Or any of my food. Everything on my plate, Yuuri, is yours.” 

Yuuri’s cheeks redden. “Then I have to continue stealing from your plate.” 

“Sounds like a marriage proposal.”

* * *

After paying the bill and leaving a nice tip, Victor walks him back to the headquarters. They stand right outside of the security checkpoint, and he softly inquires, “I’ll be here a little after six o’clock in the evening. I’ll fly us to Japan.” 

Yuuri promises, nodding, “I’ll be here.” Then he reaches forward, tugging at Victor’s collar. He gives him a hungry, tempting kiss on the alpha’s lips. He leaves the alpha shell-shocked in his tracks, turning around to head back to work. 

Victor is still standing there when Yuuri shows his badge to the security checkpoint. The witch realizes Victor can still see him somewhat. So he tilts his head and smoothly blows him a kiss. Then he pivots his heels, briskly walking around the corner. As he greets and nods at some familiar faces, he pretends there aren’t butterflies dancing in his belly. He has to be a functional Interpol agent or else he’ll be fired. 

Once he arrives back into his temporary office, he spies Phichit perching by his desk. He sighs, pushing up his glasses. “Did Yakov reject my report?”

“What? No.” Phichit ominously stops petting Oliver. “Nothing about Yakov. Wouldn’t Georgi be the one to tell you if Yakov wants something?” He resumes petting the hamster. “No, I saw you from my window.”

“Stalking much?” 

“It’s not stalking if I happened to see it.” 

“Just oh-so-happened to see it?” Yuuri sighs, rolling his eyes at Phichit. “You want to comment?” He gestures wildly at his desk, stuffed to the brim with paperwork and boxes. “It’s not like I have anything else to do.” 

“Arthur saw it.” 

“Lies.” He adds, “You just told me you saw it.” 

“Fine, we both saw it.” Not even looking apologetic, Phichit continues, “I guess he is more than just a heat partner. And—” The other witch stops talking, squinting his eyes at Yuuri’s throat. “Holy crap. Why did I not see that?” 

“Phichit.” Yuuri already knows what Phichit is seeing. “Don’t you have piles of work at your desk? Or should I redirect some of my work to you?” 

“You have a bond mark!” Phichit shrieks, ignoring Yuuri’s threat. “Holy crap. You guys are practically married!" 

The witch's ears heat up. He forgets the paperwork he's pretending to be focused upon. "It's not like we are actually married!" He frantically fixes the collar of his shirt. Did he walk in front of everyone with his bite mark showing? Victor must have tugged down his shirt while they were kissing. 

That is not true. They are technically married. Just in previous lives. Does the death of a spouse end a marriage even after said spouse is reborn again? Yuuri doesn't think too hard about it. He might give himself a headache trying to figure it out. 

"It may be the twenty-first century, but no one randomly bonds with another person if they don't feel something for them!" Phichit looks down at his hamster, listening to the constant squeaks. As if listening to the hamster. "Right. Exactly. This isn't something anybody does. It is not like you select an iced drink at Starbucks and you call it a day. A bond mark requires intimacy and a relationship." 

Yuuri glares at him, holding up his report pointedly. "You got a point here? I'm about to redirect this translation request to your desk in five, four, three. . ." 

"Redirect anyway," Phichit says, unfazed by the threat. "You're stalling. Spill. What is in the mind of Yuuri Katsuki, a witch who has never accepted a date from anyone or even considered settling down?" 

"I've never been asked out." 

"Oh, please. I think I heard Tyler from I.T. crying. But I'm getting off track now. The point is. . . I know you will never mate with a suspect unless you have some sort of ulterior motive. Especially when it comes to this suspect, someone who has been wanted by Interpol and other supernatural hunters for a long time." 

"He's not dangerous to anyone. He is Death." 

"You cleared a few suspects before, and you never gave them the time of the day when they asked you out. What is so special about this one?" 

"Close the door." 

Phichit does, flicking his hand. The door locks with a good measure. In a serious voice, he inquires, "Are you in trouble?" 

"No, I'm right where I want to be," Yuuri answers, pulling off his glasses. He reaches into the desk for a cloth to wipe off the dust. "Victor is not just Death. He's an angel. This is something you can't tell the rest of the team." 

"Got it. So he's an angel like Minako?" 

"Yeah. I don't understand completely what he is. Theoretically, from what he says, he should be at least an archangel, because he is older than Uriel, the archangel. But I'm not going to get into that. But I'm hoping I can convince him to change opinions about the Apocalypse." 

"Chris says he has been trying to convince him for a century." 

Yuuri raises a curious eyebrow. 

"Chris and I still text each other. He appreciates the end of the world memes I send to him." 

"But he's been trying to convince Victor to not support the Apocalypse?" 

"Yeah." 

"That's what I'm trying to do. Maybe he will see and help. Prevent the Apocalypse or maybe even stop Lucifer from destroying the world. I don't know how, but remember Minako?" 

"Yeah." 

"Remember how she destroyed a bunch of demons in only a few seconds? If we can convince just one angel to stand up for earth, then maybe we have a chance at surviving the Apocalypse." 

"I don't know, Yuuri. They're fairly apathetic about it. It's like a Tuesday for them, you know." 

"But we can't not do anything. We alone can't stand up against the demons. Maybe two hunters, maybe one can kill off one demon, save a house from going up in flames. But who can counter the devil himself? Not us. We're not strong enough. But we might have a chance if we get someone who can fight him, and contain him at that level." 

"Technically, there is Michael." 

"But did you read Revelations? Did you read how the Apocalypse is meant to unfold? The four horsemen. I think Victor is one of them, but that is a whole other topic of speculation. But the point is. . . I'm trying to get another option. I'm hoping that there is another option instead of mass destruction." 

"Maybe Isabella can work on Minako," the witch suggests softly. 

"Maybe. But Minako is hiding. Or she isn't visible to her. Or whatever. I think Victor is the best chance we got against the devil. Chris is right on that account." 

"I hope you're right. That you can flip him." Phichit approaches the door, hand poised on the knob. "But Yuuri. Be careful. I've never seen you get this deep with anyone before. I don't want to see you get hurt." 

"I'll be fine," he promises. 

"Emotionally," the other witch adds. "You watch your heart and be careful with it." The hamster in his fingers squeaks, raising his fingers at Yuuri for emphasis. 

Yuuri doesn't have to know the language of hamsters to know the gist of it. "I will be careful. I'm always careful." 

"Alright. Have fun with your paperwork." Phichit's eyes linger, as if seeing something Yuuri doesn't. He shuts the door behind him as he goes. 

Yuuri puts his glasses back on. Said paperwork takes a few more hours out of the day. There are reports regarding demon sightings he must read through. He has notes from Georgi about the press and their recent articles regarding the Apocalypse case. He has interview requests, and it's not even six o'clock. He pauses his skimming to reread a brief memo sent by Mickey yesterday. 

_ Isabella Yang, currently in Venci, Italy. I believe she will be heading to Florence. Please send more resources.  _

There are other memos just like this. Formatted the same, differing only in place, date, and time. 

_ Please send more resources. _

Mickey is a professional. Unlike Mila, he wouldn't put in some random gibberish or complaint that will end up getting ignored. Mickey's sentence here could mean anything. It could mean something like "please assign someone other than Mila to my surveillance van" to "please send another body to help run surveillance, because I'm having trouble keeping up with the person of interest." Yuuri digs through the other reports until he finds Mila's memo, which are all serious and grave for a change. 

Guess it is the second meaning. He actually needs more bodies out on the field. He pulls up his work email and forwards his recommendation to Yakov in hopes that he will designate someone to help the surveillance. 

By the time six o'clock rolls around, Yuuri is more than ready to leave work. He clocks out and scans his badge out at the checkpoint. Victor is standing there five minutes after six, waiting for him under the glowing lamp post. 

"Hi," he breathes, suddenly wordless. He blurts out the first thing he thinks. "You look good." His ears warm suddenly, reddening. 

Really? It's incredibly lame, like a fifth grader telling their crush something nice. 

But Victor doesn't seem to mind at all. He beams and holds out his arm, as if he's in a regency novel and about to take a prospective suitor out on a nice stroll around the lake, as if a chaperone is lurking over their shoulders behind them. Despite his demeanor, he's not dressed in the ridiculous Victorian Era clothes, however. Nothing like the typical romance novel hero. A brown coat drapes over his shoulder, slightly hiding away the dark grey suit he wears underneath. "Come. Let's go to Matsuura." 

Yuuri takes his arm, his left arm interlocking with the alpha's. He places his right hand on the alpha's bicep. It's packed with muscles. He tries not to drool, remembering the feel of these bare muscles under his touch during his heat. 

They take a mere step forward, and the world changes. It's suddenly dark, but the sky's alight with millions of stars. 

"There is not that much light pollution here." 

"Yes," Victor agrees. 

"Is Heaven like this?" 

"Well," the alpha pauses. "It's not real stars. It's more of an illusion. Down here, the stars are real."

They both glance upwards. 

“Will the end of the world bring about the destruction of stars?” Yuuri wonders aloud. He turns his head, viewing and memorizing Victor’s every expression. He doesn’t feel anything through their bond. Not yet, anyway. But he’s trying to work on it. This bond might save the world. 

Victor’s face is merely blank. “Perhaps. Depends on how they fight. If they take the fight to space, it will. . . Without a doubt, destroy some parts of the universe. Move around a few thousand planets. The battle will be long. Time is different for humans and archangels. What will be a blink of an eye to an archangel may be merely a week to a human.” Victor tears his gaze away from the night sky and then walks up to the front door of his house. 

Yuuri pauses at that statement, slowing his steps. “If you compare power and strength, then do you consider the archangels to be on par with the stars? Stars that have the same power as billions upon billions of nuclear bombs, incomparable power to anything else in the world.” 

“Stars and archangels aren’t the same thing. They have different powers. A star has innate properties while an archangel or an angel even has their own will to enact their powers.” Victor slips off his shoes and hangs his coat on a hanger, the witch following suit. He saunters into the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans from the cabinets. “So what do you want to eat?” 

“I’ll make us something,” Yuuri insists. 

“It’s no trouble,” Victor replies. “I made the gross offense of not eating at lunch, so I think I should apologize for that by making dinner. And this way, you can steal my food.” 

“No,” Yuuri says, tugging at Victor’s black tie. He pulls the alpha down, so he can look straight into the alpha’s azure eyes. “No, I’m making us something to eat. When is the last time you’ve eaten katsudon made by my hands?” 

The alpha’s argument fades. His words are a faint whisper. “A long time.” 

He releases the tie, argument won. The witch feels slightly guilty for making this point, but it has to be done. Victor would have cooked and made everything otherwise. He has already done so much for Yuuri’s heat. Yuuri turns, facing towards the rice cooker. Looking over his shoulder, he softly inquires, “So where did you put the rice? Jasmine rice.” 

“In the pantry,” Victor answers, gesturing to the door. “I’ll get it for you. I am allowed to make rice at the very least?” 

Yuuri pretends to think. “Only if you let me set the water level. Three and a half cups of rice.” 

"Done." He eagerly fills out the correct amount, pouring it into a metal container. "Do you need me to bring out the ingredients?" 

"I think I can find where you have everything," Yuuri muses. "Okay, I lied. I don't know where you put the sugar."

"Jar with the painted roses. In the cabinet to the right of the stove. Yes, there. I have soy sauce in the fridge. Pork is also in the fridge. So are the eggs." Victor taps his chin in thought, beaming. 

They work together, each move so perfectly complimenting. Victor knows exactly what Yuuri needs before the witch thinks of it himself. 

"How was your day at work?" Yuuri inquires. "Busy in the ER?" 

"Not at all. A few stitches here and there. But nothing severe," the alpha says, warming up a pot of water for tea. "A few cases where the wound was better than it looked. That's how head injuries typically are. But a slow day. How was yours?" 

"Paperwork all day. I did all the ones that needed my actual handwriting first and then had the computer type the rest out for me." 

Victor snorts. "What kind of pens are you using?" 

Yuuri names a pen. 

The alpha winces. "Those are incredibly thin. You should use something thicker, so you have a better grip." 

"You got a recommendation?" Yuuri wonders, grabbing two white ceramic bowls from the cabinet. He's beginning to instinctively know where exactly all the ingredients and supplies are without needing Victor to guide him. It's strange, almost as if he's in his own kitchen. The thought, the constant thrum of speculation, flees when he spies Victor’s grin. 

"I have a box upstairs. I can give you it." 

The witch smiles, filling the two bowls with rice. "I'll hold you to it." When he turns to face the kitchen counter, he's surprised to see Makkachin gleefully sitting on the bar stool, perfectly centered on the seat. Her tongue rolls out. "Makkachin? When did you get here?" 

"Don't mind her. She likes to watch." Victor crosses the floor to the fridge, pulling out a slice of raw beef. "Now, Makka. Tell me. Do you deserve this? Did you track sand all over the rugs again?" 

She barks. 

Yuuri couldn't care if she decided to rub mud into all of his clothes with how cute and adorable she is, sitting there so patiently with her tail thumping. He tilts his head at Victor and says, as if scandalized, "She deserves it. How dare you deny her." 

Victor pouts, placing the beef on a plate suddenly appearing out of nowhere. He neatly sets the plate down before the drooling hellhound. "Last time, one of the dogs ate my Italian shoes. I still don't know which one did it." 

The witch chokes down a laugh. With the straightest face he can possibly muster, he says, "Italian shoes are delicious. They are among some of the finest quality shoes in the world. Why not eat them?" 

"Not you too!" Victor cries. "I hear this argument from Makkachin all the time. Then Vicchan decides he also wants to eat his own pair." 

“Sounds like Vicchan.” Yuuri smiles. He sets the finished katsudon on a tray and carries it over to the dining room. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Makkachin jumping off the bar stool, tag wagging as she follows his heels. He calls back to Victor. "Don't forget the chopsticks like last time!" 

"Yuuri, it was only one time! Back before I knew how to cook anything," he says, pouting with utensils and the teapot in his hands. "You wound me." 

Yuuri grins. It's nice to see that his dreams are his old memories. He remembers Victor in a mad dash, trying to set up a perfect Japanese dinner and ending up forgetting everything important. The witch arranges everything perfectly, the manners and habits he learned while working at Yutopia flawlessly retained even after all these years. 

He takes a seat, tucking his legs in. He's about to encourage Victor to do the same until he sees the alpha standing still like a statue and staring at the paper walls, not quite seeing anything at all. Or perhaps he’s seeing through the walls. "Uh, Victor? Is everything alright?" 

Victor doesn’t look away. 

"Victor?" 

"Lilith just broke the sixty-eighth seal."

* * *

Phichit texts him right after he finishes dinner with Victor.  _ Yakov needs everyone to be in Florence, Italy like yesterday. Isabella tracked Lilith to a church. Lilith and another demon took a hostage. A priest. All nuns have been accounted for. Police have barricaded the church and the chapel.  _

He's not going to make it in time if he uses the international gateways and bullies his way through customs like one Yakov Feltsman. But then he sees Victor, washing the frying pan. "Victor, can you fly me to Florence?" 

He scrubs at a persistent spot. "Trying to stop Lilith from dying? From breaking the final seal?" 

"I think we both know the answer to that." He pauses, sounding vulnerable to his own ears. "You going to stop me?" 

Victor dries the pan. "You wouldn't be yourself, Yuuri, if you didn't try." A pause. "Go get your coat. I’ll set a bowl of water out for Makkachin, and we’ll go." 

“Will you help?” He hopes, hopes beyond anything in the world that Victor can do something. He hopes that this alpha can snap his finger or something to prevent the end of the world. He strangely has enough hope for this, even though Chris and Victor’s own mouth has said otherwise. Because there is still some time for Victor to change his mind. 

“No,” he answers. “I’ll drop you off in Florence, Italy, but that is the most I’ll do.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.” 

* * *

Upon arriving, Yuuri blinks, eyes adjusting to the bright flashing of red and blue lights glowing amidst the darkness. Victor is nowhere to be seen, his words true. He has taken Yuuri to Florence, but he will do nothing more. Yuuri doesn’t spend any time focusing on this thought, his mind snapping into focus. He has a lot of work to do. Waddling through the mess of police officers and controlled chaos, he finds Isabella frantically waving and shouting something at Phichit and makes a beeline for them. Except for Phichit, they're on the other side of the police barricade. They, including JJ and Hikaru Fujiwara. Minako is nowhere to be seen, unsurprisingly. 

"Maybe I can walk in there," Isabella suggests, leaning on the police barricade. A demon knife is tucked underneath her belt, winking in the lights. "I can't be harmed under the protection of an archangel, and they should stop the proceedings, right?" 

"Isabella, it's risky," JJ points out.

"He's right," says a familiar voice. 

Yuuri glances around Isabella, noticing Minako suddenly standing there in a black blazer and sleek pantsuits. Dressed like a businesswoman on a mission to conduct a hostile takeover, she looks ready to murder someone with the stormy expression written on her face. 

"What, Minako!" Isabela turns and pauses, her limbs stretched as if unsure whether to hug the archangel. It's not like anyone has written a book about social cues and archangels. 

Minako pulls her in for a hug anyway. "Hello. I'm sorry I have been away." She stands up on her tip toes and gives a hug to the demon hunters. JJ flails around her. "But I'm on official business, unfortunately. I'm under strict orders to not let Isabella into the church at any cost." 

"You have orders to let Lucifer go free?" Yuuri asks. 

"Yes," Minako confirms, her face neutral. Neither judging or disagreeing with the horrible idea. She could be a statue in Italy, because they both possess the same ideas, the same thoughts, which is nothing at all. "I am under orders to let the events unfold." 

Phichit interjects, "But if we try to stop—”

“You can’t stop it,” the archangel says coolly, her sharp gaze turning upon the witch. “This has been foretold for a long time. Long before you’ve even been born.” 

“At the very least, we’re getting out the priest,” Yuuri cuts in, his grip tightening on the police barricade. He turns to Minako, feeling her thousand-year stare watch him now. “Will you be stopping us from doing that?”

Minako shakes her head. “No.” 

Turning around to head to the church, Phichit passes him an earpiece. “Helicopter’s infrared thermal scan shows there are three heat signatures in the building. Mickey’s scanner shows there’s no heat signatures above the first floor. So they’re in the basement. And the basement is huge. It’s split into several parts. I got a quick glimpse at the floor plan. A lot of small rooms for group study, and two main ones for a small seminar.” 

“Do we have anyone else on our team?”

“Nyet,” Phichit answers. “The hunters are handling the swarm of demons in the chapel, and that is an all hands on deck situation. We’re on our own. We don’t even have anyone on our comm line.” 

“Great,” Yuuri mutters, shoving in the earbud. They enter through the grand double doors of the church. Before following down the stairs, he voices aloud, “I feel like I’m walking in with a big target on my back.” He shivers at the cold draft suddenly blowing at his legs. It almost feels like winter. Almost. 

“We got no time. We need to split,” Phichit whispers, facing left. “I got the small rooms, you get the seminar rooms.” 

Yuuri nods, holding a hand out while he pulls out an origami swan from his coat. Then he slowly makes his way down the halls, his path lit by the witchfire glowing from his palms. He finds the direction to the first room. The door is open, leading to a little hallway. 

He slowly makes his way in. 

Candles light the room. They glow and flicker creepily, setting dark shadows against the murals of Jesus Christ in agony. A hopeful image. Yuuri alone steps forward, thinking splitting up is a very bad idea. The church’s basement is huge, and there is only a limited amount of spaces they could be hiding. Then Yuuri sticks his head out around a support beam, his eyes scanning. This room is set up with several rows of pews facing towards a nervous, sweaty priest standing at the raised stage with tight white knuckles wrapped around the wood podium. A cross is etched on the wood. 

His breaths slow, Yuuri’s heartbeat steadily pumping. The entire room smells of sulfur and wax. Yuuri carefully moves, the paper swan in his fingers feeling like a pitiful weapon against the demons. Lilith, if she is indeed here, was only beaten last time because of an archangel’s interference. What is a witch against two demons?

There's an unfamiliar demon waving at the priest, as if conducting an orchestra. And next to the priest is a grinning bound woman in a nun's outfit. Lilith, tied to the altar like a sacrifice. Though unlike typical sacrifices, she is enjoying the moment, eating up the pathetic scene laid out before her. 

"Keep going, Father," encourages the demon, a man dressed in a pinstriped suit with odd colors of deep red and white. His dark hair is oily, and his smile is twisted. "Keep reciting your sunday sermon." 

The priest winces, as if pained. In stuttering English, a language he knows but not that well, he gasps and continues, quoting from the Bible laid out on the podium, "’And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.’” 

“Keep going!” 

The priest stammers out the next verse, every word horribly butchered beyond recognition. 

“Bah!”

Lilith laughs, a horrible musical sound. “Astaroth, teasing much?” 

“My lady, it’s only fair. I had to listen to him speak last Friday to see if he’s a fitting priest,” he replies, smirking. Then he turns to the priest and orders, “Tell me the next part, won’t you, Father?” 

The priest hesitates. “‘Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul.’” 

The demon roars in laughter, mocking the priest’s Italian accent. Underlining every last syllable of the word and twisting it with relish, he repeats, “‘Loved him as his own soul!’” In his real voice, he scathingly says, "And you thought you can give your little sermon in English to the tourists. Never fear. I'll put you out of their misery. But after my lady." 

The priest's eyes widen, but he doesn't dare to say another word. 

Astaroth pulls out a knife from his inner pocket. Casually wiping the blade with his own sleeve, he giggles unexpectedly. "My lady, what a fine blade this is." 

"Only the best." 

Yuuri decides to make his entrance. Holding his paper swan out in one hand and offensively readying his magic in the other, he orders, "Drop the knife, Astaroth." He looks at the priest, at the relieved look on his face. 

But they’re not out of the storm. Not yet. 

The demon raises an eyebrow. "Ah, a witch. Knife. What knife?" 

"The one in your hand." 

"Hmm." Briefly glancing down, Astaroth yelps in surprise at the knife in his hands. "Oh, this one. So sorry, didn't notice it at all!" He still doesn’t drop the knife, though. 

“What an honor for this witch to see the beginning of the end,” Lilith purrs, the chains around her wrist rattling. The nun’s habit on her doesn’t suit her at all and seems to be a mockery of all the victims in this case. It’s probably why she chose to wear a nun’s habit out of all things. “Make sure you bow and kneel for mercy before our lord and master, witch. He may let you die peacefully.” 

“Drop the knife.” 

Astaroth merely smiles. “No.” Then he raises the knife, pointing it at the pale priest. “I think he should go first. But I suppose. . .” He waves his hand at Yuuri, sending the witch straight into the wall. 

Yuuri grunts. It’s hard, and he’s merely dazed for a moment, but he pushes up his eyeglasses, just in time to see the knife being thrown. 

It does not hit the priest. 

Landing squarely in her chest, the knife sinks the way into the flesh, as if only parting soft cheese. Lilith coughs, blood dripping out of her lips and mouth like a red waterfall. She’s fading fast. “Long live our master.” She adds, a mere whisper now, “I only wish I could see him prevail. . .” She slumps to the side, dead as the blood drips down to the glowing sigil underneath her body. 

The walls shake. 

Yuuri is too late. 

He’s too late to stop the devil from rising. 

The priest takes the opportunity to run, slamming straight into a locked door. Desperately, he fumbles with the unrelenting doorknob, unable to get it open. Cornered, he pounds the door, nervously facing Astaroth.

The demon merely cocks his head, like a dog watching a squirrel climb up a tree. He turns his head back to the sigil, watching it as a dark abyss opens to absorb Lilith’s body. White light begins to fill the darkness, glowing with power. 

Like an angel’s white light. 

Yuuri slowly stands up, the numbness of his feet turning to lead. He can’t move, but maybe, he has enough power, enough magic, to kill Astaroth today. To save at least one person. To save Phichit, who is somewhere in the church. And the other demon hunters who might have walked in the church, hoping to detain Lilith before she could be killed. 

It’s too late. 

“Attack,” he orders, the swan in his hand coming to life. He takes the moment, the distraction given to Astaroth, to jump over the pews to run to the priest’s side. Concentrating, he blasts open the door, narrowly missing Phichit. 

“Holy crap!” he shouts. “I was right here!” 

"No time! Take this civilian and run! The devil is about to rise!" Yuuri shouts. 

"What about you?" 

"I'm going after Astaroth! Now go!" The witch orders, pushing the priest up the stairs. "Go!" 

The demon tips apart the paper swan. He hisses, touching at the raised swollen flesh on his face. "A little nice parlour trick, witch. Now. I heard rumors about your little spell. Let's see if I can do better." 

The witch narrowly ducks before an entire pew is thrown at him. It blocks the entrance, separating Yuuri between Phichit. 

"Run! Trust me! Warn the others!" Then Yuuri turns away, facing Astaroth alone. 

The entire ground shakes as Astaroth pulls out a silver knife from his belt. He taunts, "Little witch. Hiding behind all your spells." 

"It makes us even," Yuuri counters, narrowing the gap between then. He dodges the knife, swooping down to swipe at the demon's feet. It hits nothing. 

The demon laughs, backing away. Striking as fast as lightning, his heeled shoe lands right on Yuuri's chest and throws him into the wooden pew. 

The pew breaks, collapsing and splintering into chunks. Victor has most definitely fed him too well during his heat. Unlike losing weight, as is typical, he has gained some fat.

Then a voice slithers into Yuuri’s ear. 

_ A little fight. Toying with your food?  _

The voice, so low and seductive, purrs from the ground, as if coming from beneath the earth itself. 

The demon grins. "My Prince!" 

_ Astaroth, loyal as always.  _

Astaroth narrowly lands a kick at Yuuri's thigh. The witch has to quickly roll away, the wood splinters and dust settling into his bloodied palms. 

Yuuri pants, concentrating and remembering the dance he showed Victor so many lives ago. Could he somehow manipulate his surroundings? 

But before he can even try, a new type of rumbling shakes the entire building, the very foundation of the church crumbling before their eyes. Spider-like fractures crawl up the walls. The cement surrounding the support beams collapse. 

“My Prince, I feel something is coming,” cries the demon. “There’s a force! A powerful angel is coming!” 

The bright light emerging from the sigil does not dim. Standing in perfect body formation to cast an offensive spell at the demon, Yuuri can hear every word perfectly. The cruel words laughing from the monstrous light, the same exact light he saw in a dream so long ago. Like Selaphiel's light. Like Minako's light. But this one? It’s twisted, repugnant. 

Still remarkably beautiful. 

_ Fools. What foolish angel would dare to approach me now? Astaroth, can you feel my power? _

Lucifer’s words echo in volume, suddenly creating a disjointed ring in the witch’s head. Yuuri, in the back of his head, wishes for some ear plugs, but he has a feeling it wouldn’t have helped. A deaf man could hear Lucifer’s voice. 

“Yes, my Prince! I can feel you rising to this realm!” 

_ Announce yourself, interloper!  _

There is an answering shout to Lucifer's order, rising from all around. It doesn't hurt Yuuri's ears at all to hear this call. 

** I AM THE NAMELESS, MALAKH HA-MAWETH, THE ANGEL OF DEATH, THE WATCHER. I AM THE END OF EVERYTHING. **

Instead of feeling fear from the terrifying words, all Yuuri knows is relief. He  _ knows  _ that voice. He has heard it before so many times, throughout this life and the previous lives he’s lived a long, long, long time ago. He has even heard it just earlier today. And through their bond, he can feel the presence approaching at the speed of light. 

Victor. 

The man suddenly appears right between Astaroth and Yuuri. Wearing a sleek black suit with a midnight-colored tie covered by an impeccable black wool overcoat, Victor purses his lips at the scene before him. Dressed like this, Death seems remarkably pale as described in the stories and legends. One hand, wearing sable leather gloves, grips a beautiful dark weapon, resembling a pole with a curved blade attached at the end. A scythe, which seems to bend the light around it. Intricate markings on the blade seem to softly glow a dark red. 

It takes Yuuri to realize the scythe is not bending light. It’s literally absorbing light, as if devouring the very fabric of reality. Like a hellhound's true form but on crack. 

The witch instantly knows it’ll kill  _ everything _ it touches. 

_ Brother. How amusing you come.  _

"Hello, Lucifer. It's been a long time," Victor coolly says to the gaping pit of light. "Come to haunt us again?" 

"He is not haunting anything like a mere sliver of a spirit fixated on their sad pitiful death," Astaroth spits, suddenly so offended for the first time all night. 

Victor steps forward, stepping closer to the demon. "He is not learning anything. Making the same mistakes as before," he says, his voice touched with a tone of sadness. "But I'm only here to collect." 

_ Have you decided to turn your back on Heaven?  _

"Brother, you remain too hopeful. I will do my duty as what the Apocalypse demands. Nothing more, nothing less. I don't take sides." Victor's scythe only seems to glow darker, ominously so. 

_ So. Who are you here to collect?  _

"Him," the angel answers, swinging his scythe. The very blade lands in Astaroth's stomach, turning the demon into nothing but a pile of dust. 

Lucifer laughs.  _ Are you sure you aren't taking sides? I recall the first war. You watched but you never killed.  _

"Astaroth's name is on my fingers. I wager he would have been killed by the witch." 

_ Yet you interfered. For the first time.  _

"Expect that to be the only time," Victor replies, his head turning to the pit. He backs away, a gloved hand reaching for Yuuri. "Let's go." 

Yuuri grasps the glove, briefly wondering if he's somehow died and is now being ferried by Death to another realm. But no. Once he blinks, he realizes they're standing right at the barricade surrounding the church. 

And through the roof, white light strikes, blindingly so beautiful. Morningstar, the once Prince of Heaven, the fallen archangel. 

"Yuuri! Are you okay?" Phichit shouts, grasping Yuuri's cut hands. "Oh, crap, you're hurt. I need a paramedic here!" 

"Lucifer is free, but Astaroth is dead," Yuuri dazedly says. "And Victor. . ." His voice trails off to a dull silence, not seeing the alpha anywhere. Was he even here or was it all a dream? 

"Paramedics are busy," informs a familiar voice. Chris, dressed in a thick wool hat with eyeglasses and a turtleneck. He holds out a first aid kit. "Phichit put me on first aid duty to stay out of everyone's way, but it turns out I'm still needed." He winks, opening the box on the road. 

The white light suddenly stops, sending the world back into darkness. A night filled with stars glimmering and a waning moon, witnessing this moment. 

Yuuri holds his palms out, trying to gather his wits. "Lucifer is free," he repeats. 

"I should check to see if he has a concussion," the other witch murmurs. "You got a flashlight in there?" 

Ignoring the protest of his cuts, Yuuri grabs Phichit's wrist. "Lucifer is free." 

"Yes," Chris acknowledges, his face expressionless. "He is." 

"Then are we doomed?" 

"Not yet," Chris says, determinedly. He bends down and picks up a few packs of gauze from the kit, offering the packages to the witch. "We can still stop him. We have to lock him out of his vessel, so he can't do great harm to earth. If he can't get the vessel, he can't fight Michael." 

"You mean. . ." 

"Find the antichrist," Yuuri answers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you Next Level!

**Author's Note:**

> https://discord.gg/TYMxcAB
> 
> Link good until end of 2020.


End file.
